Our Little Lives
by Concetta
Summary: Two lives converge beyond the barricade. *Chapter 45 Up!*
1. Careful

**Author's Note_: I will, I will, I will work on my Narnia fic and I am working on my Tintin fic—but this plot bunny will not leave me be until I give it a carrot, so indulge me . . . and my bunny. :) This fic is mostly a mix of book and musical since I started it way back in August, before the movie came out. _****_Aaron Tveit is the model for Enjolras physically. I love Ramin Karimloo's Enjolras (and originally he was the model for this fic), but since this is a mixture of book and musical, Aaron Tveit fits the book's description (plus he's reaaally grown on me). Samantha Barks is Éponine. _**

**Careful**

Éponine Thénardier gazed down at the Seine swirling black beneath her feet; her thoughts and emotions just as dark and turbulent.

She had lost her last shred of innocence the night before.

She had tried to be good, she really had.

All for Marius.

He was the reason she had been making a concerted effort over the past three months to keep out of her father's schemes. She wanted to be clean for him. She did not know how clean she had to feel before she felt herself worthy of him . . . pure enough to confess those long held affections . . .

Her feelings for Marius Pontmercy were her only joy; they raised her up out of the debris of her tattered life and into the light. That light sustained her in the darkness and the hope of love requited kept her going.

But, staying uninvolved in the _Patron-Minette_ was harder than one would think. Her father was of the league that said, "you don't work, you don't eat." That would seem a sensible—almost noble statement if her father's version of "work" had been honest.

M. Thénardier had many schemes for her and her younger sister, Azelma to enact. Chief of these was delivering letters. Some were cons, Thénardier writing in the voice of different, imaginary people, begging for monetary assistance, or, even darker: letters of blackmail. When this scheme was not enough M. Thénardier concocted a second. Out of the two girls Éponine was the one whose looks had not been completely ruined by poverty. He had her pose as an independent prostitute to lure men into an alley or any place out of sight; then before the men got their money's worth Thénardier would appear and knock them unconcious, then relieve them of their purse.

It was a lucrative scheme. The side of Éponine's character that came from her father told her to be pleased with herself. But, then she would see Marius and guilt would gnaw at the back of mind. Sweet, clean, Marius. But, she knew in order to live she would have to continue the "work" and every night her conscience pricked her heart.

After working the con for two months her father began to get overconfident and sloppy. Once, Thénardier caroused a little too long and showed up late. Fortunately the "customer" also had a little too much to drink and Éponine was able render him insensible by on her own and make her escape. She was beaten by her father that night for failing to snatch the man's purse.

"That was the last thing on my mind, _pére,_" Éponine spat, clutching her swiftly bruising side. Her father was always careful not to beat her face, her one marketable feature.

After that narrow escape she vowed, for her own sake as well as for Marius', to find real work.

No respectable business would take her due to her impoverished appearance and lack of formal education. They would not even hear her out when she tried to convince them of her competence. Not even the local laundress would take her on.

Éponine kept up the job hunt for two weeks before hunger drove her back home and back to working the con.

And then the worst happened.

Thénardier was late again.

The intended victim did not appreciate the sudden resistance. And then he got a good look at her and gripped both her thin wrists in his large hand.

"I know you . . . You're the brat who brought that letter to my firm . . . the one threatening to inform my colleagues about certain bribes . . ."

"Please, _Monsieur_ Bambatois, let me go!"

"I should take you to the police."

Éponine panicked and lunged forward, sinking her teeth into Bambatois' bicep, he yelped but did not let go.

"You little devil! I've changed my mind . . . I'll take what I came for!" He pressed her up against the wall, the brick dug painfully into her bare arms.

It was very quick and very painful.

"A virgin prostitute? Well, well. What a pleasant surprise . . ."

Thénardier arrived in the alley to find Éponine curled up in a ball on the dirty cobblestones.

"'Ponine . . . ?" he whispered, uncertain.

"Where were you?" the girl ground out.

Thénardier had the decency to allow an expression of remorse cross his face, but said nothing. He stared dumbly at his daughter's crumpled form.

"_Where were you_?"

Éponine's harsh cry snapped him back to reality and what was left of Thénardier's fatherly instincts went back into hiding. The former innkeeper let out a harsh bark of laughter.

"Made an honest woman out of you, did he?" Thénardier laughed again at his own tasteless joke.

Éponine raised her head to glare at the man she had the misfortune to call father. He saw the look in the dim light and jabbed a finger in her direction.

"Hey! You knew the risks. You knew what you were getting into, so don't blame me!" Thénardier turned on his heel and began to walk out of the alley. Before he left he glanced over his shoulder.

"Are you coming?" He asked gruffly. When he received no reply he departed, leaving his broken daughter behind in the alley.

. . . . . .

When Éponine did come home she found a half crust of white bread waiting for her.

White bread . . . how long had it been since she had tasted it?

"Be grateful for that, my pet. Your father took some risk to get it."

Éponine turned to look at her mother, but _Madame_ Thénardier refused to meet her gaze. "That's all the apology you're going to get from him."

Éponine ate her crust slowly.

. . . . . .

The next day Marius ran into Cosette and the last of Éponine's dreams were dashed.

. . . . . .

". . . I've written letter upon letter to the government to lower the cost of living, for the sake of those who could barely fill their aching bellies before the prices soared. Not a one petition has been answered! So then, the time for words is over!"

He was in rare form tonight. Enjolras had been delivering his speech standing on the tables in the backroom of the Café Musain. His heart swelled as his eyes swept over his comrades. Enjolras thanked his barrister father—God rest his soul—for passing the gift of oration onto his son.

The leeches of the ruling class _would_ listen to him—and if not to his voice, to his force of arms.

Enjolras waited for the cheers of approval that usually followed his speeches . . . and instead was met with the buzz of unrelated conversations. He had been so swept up with his visions of the future glory of France that it took him a moment to realize he did not have his friends' undivided attention. They were all huddled around Marius who was regaling them with stories of his newfound ladylove.

Enjolras glanced down at his feet where Grantaire was resting his drunk head.

"Hey," Enjolras nudged Grantaire's head with the toe of his boot, "tell me _you_ were at least listening."

Grantaire lifted his head a little. "Hrrm? Ah . . . of course . . . death to all Orléanists . . ." After that contribution he put his head back on the table.

Enjolras groaned and dabbed the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief. These interruptions of the lovelorn Pontmercy had been going on for two meetings straight and it was beginning to wear on Enjolras' patience. And he already was short on patience when it came to women and romantic nonsense.

Enjolras grew up the only son of an influential lawyer who had inherited a vast estate after the death of his elder brother. From the time he was seven years old Enjolras' mother had paraded before him an unending line of eligible marriage prospects. One top of that he had three sisters who spent their days giggling over boys and cooing over fashion plates. And his classmates wondered why he avoided women. His time at university was his only escape.

Enjolras let out a long-suffering sigh and hopped off the table. He yanked his coat and Marius' from off the peg, then grabbed Marius by the back of his starched collar and dragged him outside.

"_Bonne nuit, mes amis!_" Enjolras called out before slamming the door.

. . . . .

"Pontmercy, you are either devoted to the cause one hundred percent or not at all!"

Enjolras was close to yelling in his friend's ear as they walked swiftly along the riverbank, back to their respective apartments.

"I only accepted you into our group on Courfeyrac's recommendation, despite your taxing attachment to Buonaparte. Now you constantly interrupt the work of _Les Amis_ by this new idol of yours. I cannot have butterflies in the group, we need dedication. If you want to stay I need to know our cause has your full concentration—"

"Hey! There's my friend Éponine. Hey, 'Ponine!"

The girl sucked in a breath and stepped back from the Seine. She had been so lost in her morbid thoughts she had not noticed the object of her affections until he was practically standing next to her.

"_Monsieur_ Marius . . . wh-what are you doing here?"

"Are you alright, 'Ponine? Your eyes are red, like you've been crying."

"Crying? Me? No! I just sat too near to the fire at home, you know how it smokes something awful."

Marius wrinkled his nose. Éponine's heart skipped. She loved it when he did that.

"Enjolras and I were just walking back from our meeting at the café. Have you met my friend Grégoire Enjolras?"

Éponine glanced over Marius' shoulder at the taller young man standing behind him. His golden locks picked up slivers of moonlight, creating a faint halo and his gray-blue eyes were focused on the river. He seemed oblivious to their conversation, but his long fingers tapped against the large books in his arms, betraying his impatience.

Éponine had seen Enjolras several times before over the course of her acquaintance with Marius. She had seen the grim young man giving speeches in the back rooms of the Café Musain; pretty words of equality, liberty and such and such. Éponine little heeded such things; she was only there for Marius after all.

"No. But, I'm sure your important friend would not want to meet the likes of me."

The older boy stopped tapping.

"_Mademoiselle_, you are a citizen of France, no better or worse than anyone else."

Éponine let out a snort of derision and looked up at the young revolutionary. His dark eyes were latched onto hers, as if daring her to disagree with his truth. Éponine stared unabashedly back. There was no challenge in her eyes, but no surrender either.

"Before I go," Marius cut into the match, "I would ask you a favor."

"Anything, _Monsieur,_" Éponine said eagerly, forgetting the apparent contest. She heard a faint sigh of exasperation and impatience from the _les amis de l_'ABC's leading member.

Marius pulled an envelope out of his waistcoat pocket. "Would you see to it that this reaches _Mademoiselle_ Cosette?"

Éponine gazed down at the innocent looking envelope being held out to her then looked up to see that Enjolras was watching her, obliquely. His gaze seemed to hold a mixture of disinterest and pity, if that were even possible. Finally, he rolled his eyes and looked away.

His pity and flippancy angered Éponine. She drew herself to her full height and snatched the letter from Marius' hands. "I will do my best."

"Good girl! Thank you so much, 'Ponine! I knew I could count on you!"

Éponine blushed under his enthusiastic praise.

Marius began to walk away and Enjolras followed. But, as he passed he murmured to her.

"Careful."


	2. Yet

**Yet**

"They say General LaMarque is growing weaker by the day. It seems likely that the cholera will take him." Jean-Baptiste Joly, the medical student of their group, informed his friends at the next meeting. "They also say the President of the Council, Casimir Perier has been struck with it."

"And good riddance to him," Grantaire muttered as he took a swig of brandy.

Joly gave him a disapproving look. "He contracted it while visiting the sick in the hospitals. He may be our political enemy, but I respect a man who would risk his health to bring comfort to others."

"Stupid thing to do," Grantaire said, taking another swig. "Right, Enjolras?"

"Not now, wine-cask!"

Enjolras was sitting at a nearby table, writing. On top of studying to be a lawyer, and fomenting rebellion, he wrote anonymous essays for _Le National_, the local radical newspaper, extolling the virtues of a republic.

Enjolras wrote at a frenetic pace, his pen desperately trying to keep up with his mind. Numerous open books and papers lay fanned out before him. Among the books was his well-beloved, well-worn copy of Cicero's _The Republic of Cicero,_ Plato's _Republic_ a copy of the _Constitution of Athens_ by Aristotle, _The Social Contract_ by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, facsimiles of the American Declaration of Independence, their Constitution, and the Bible.

The door to the backroom suddenly burst open and in walked Marius, eyes aglow, cheeks blooming, an idiotic smile gracing his face.

_Merde._ Enjolras fought the urge to roll his eyes, he had been doing way too much of that lately.

"Something tells me," Grantaire slurred, holding out his hands in dramatic fashion, "that our Romeo has been to see his Juliet! How is your mistress?"

Marius' cheeks further reddened. "She's not my mistress," he said quietly.

Grantaire ruffled the young man's brown curly hair. "_Yet_, my lovesick friend. Yet."

Enjolras' pen stilled as a sudden thought came to him. He glanced at Pontmercy out of the corner of his eye.

Was his shadow there?

Yes, she was.

Now that Enjolras thought about it, he had seen the waif before Marius introduced them. In the past Enjolras had taken note of a boy in an oversized coat and cap coming in with Marius to the café many times.

_So, it was not a _gamin_ all this time, but a _gamine_ . . . A _gamine _who sat in a corner for so many hours, through so many meetings . . ._

Women were prohibited from taking part in their meetings, but perhaps . . . if she was truly interested . . . He might make an exception.

What _did_ a common _gamine_ think of what they spoke of here? Of _liberté, égalité and fraternité_? Maybe, when he had the time, when all this was said and done, he would ask her.


	3. Letters

**Letters**

The words on the page began to blur. Enjolras rubbed his tired eyes. His thoughts were exhausted and he could no longer translate the words in his mind onto the paper. The young man fumbled for his pocket-watch.

_Half past ten._

Enjolras looked around him to see who was still in the café. Feuilly, Combeferre, Marius and his "shadow" remained.

For the past hour Marius and the girl had been working on something across the table from him.

Marius was composing another letter to his beloved and would often stop to ask Éponine her opinion on it. Éponine would often look up when Marius' head was down, concentrating on the letter. She studied his profile, memorizing every inch of him, relishing his close proximity. If she only dared to lean forward a few inches . . . her lips would be on his cheek. Just the thought made her dizzy.

"'Ponine that tickles!" Marius rubbed his ear into his shoulder.

"Oh! I'm sorry!" Éponine flushed crimson, she had not realized she had been leaning so close, that she had been breathing in his ear.

"Now, read over this and tell me what you think."

Enjolras looked up from his work.

"You can read, _Mademoiselle_?"

Éponine sat up straight and lifted her chin. She bristled at his surprised tone, although, at the same time, she did not blame him. "I know all my letters," she said archly. "I can write, too."

Enjolras favored her with a small, pleased smile. "That is wonderful, _Mademoiselle_."

Éponine blinked at him. She was not expecting praise. Marius had not praised her when she had first showed off her skills to him.

" . . . I can write, too!" Approval-starved Éponine slapped her hand on one of Marius' blanks and dragged it towards her. She also grasped Marius' abandoned pen and, after dipping it in the ink pot, began to scrawl. Marius sighed and leaned his cheek in his hand, annoyed by the sudden halt in his sonnet-making. It did not take her long to finish and with a satisfied smirk she slid her work across the table to Enjolras. Enjolras looked down. It was barely legible with all the blots and the atrocious penmanship:

_The _conges_ r heer._

Enjolras raised an eyebrow.

"Hm."

He slid the paper back to Éponine.

Apparently he was not impressed either. Marius could see the indignation building on Éponine's part and knew he needed to save his friend from the impending storm.

"'Ponine . . ." he laid a hand softly on her arm. A shiver went down her spine as she felt his soft fingers brush against her bare flesh. Enjolras' existence was completely forgotten.

"_Oui, Monsieur_?" She said a little breathlessly.

Marius held his unfinished sonnet before her and her mood plummeted again.

"Help me complete this?"

Éponine would rather be dragged across a bed of nails, but if it kept Marius by her side a little longer she would do anything. As she read Eponine soothed her wounded heart with the artificial balm of imagination: she mentally replaced every "Cosette" with "Eponine" and pretended the letter was addressed to her.

The _gamine_ soon handed the draft back to him, declaring it good.

"Are you sure? Because I think it would sound better if . . ."

It was at this point that Enjolras tuned them out and tried to focus again on his essay. But, soon the drone of Marius' voice became a comforting buzz and he felt himself begin to drift.

As soon as he realized what was happening Enjolras shot up out of his chair and in an effort to rouse himself he moved around the room, visiting his friends and engaging in their conversations.

Twenty minutes later he returned to his spot and decided it was time to go. He had classes early in the day tomorrow. He gathered up his books one by one, then to his dismay discovered one was missing.

"Combeferre, have you seen my copy of _The Republic of Cicero_?"

"No. Are you sure you brought it?"

"Yes."

"I'm sure it will turn up. Maybe someone accidently picked it up, thinking it was theirs."

"My name was inside . . . Oh, well. I can always buy another copy," Enjolras sighed. He feigned indifference but inside he felt the loss deeply. The copy had belonged to his father.

Meanwhile, Éponine was huddled under a tree by the river trying to read in the combined light of the moon and streetlamps the book she had pinched.

. . . . . .

The vocabulary was beyond her. It was frustrating to be reading and yet not understanding. She closed the book with a snap, stood, then began to pace.

"Try again, 'Ponine."

She opened the book again and this time tried to read out loud.

. . . . . .

Enjolras propelled himself along the Seine, making his way towards his flat. His mind feverishly tried to remember where he last saw the book. It had been in front of him the whole time . . . he dozed . . . he got up . . . it was gone when he returned to the table.

Who else was at the table? Enjolras fought with his tired brain, trying to recollect.

Marius.

Marius had been there.

Marius and the Thénardier girl.

_What was her name? Evangeline? Émilie? Émilienne? What is wrong with you, Enjolras? You claim to care for the common people but cannot remember the name of one poor street waif?_

Suddenly, a voice floated to Enjolras' ears. He turned to see a figure standing in the silver moonlight. It was she. The oversized great coat was gone, revealing the tattered remains of kercheif, bodice and skirt and how terribly thin she was underneath them. Enjolras then noticed the book in her hand and her words became clear:

"'The pretenses which are urged for the enjoyment of indolence are not to be listened to. As when it is stated that the public affairs are meddled with by men worthy of no confidence, with whom it is disgraceful to associate: yet to contend against whom is a miserable and dangerous effort, especially when the multitude is excited. For which reason a prudent man ought not to take the reins, when he is not able to restrain the mad and untameable violence of the vulgar: or a generous man expose himself to the lashes of contumely in a strife with low and outrageous adversaries: or a wise man hope to withdraw from such a contest without injury-"

"-As if there could well be a more just cause for good and firm men, endowed with noble minds, to stand forth in aid of their country, than that they may not be subject to bad men; nor suffer the republic to be lacerated by them, before the desire of saving it may come too late.'" He finished in a sharp voice.

Éponine gasped and whirled around as he spoke, the precious tome slipping from her startled fingers and onto the pavement. Enjolras strode swiftly forward to grab the book, but Éponine scooped it up first and held it tightly to her chest.

"_Mademoiselle_," he said sharply.

"Éponine, _Monsieur_. I'm no lady."

"All women are ladies in the eyes of God and the Republic, _Mademoiselle_," he said with a sigh, suddenly tired all over again.

Éponine wondered what strange world this man hailed from for such ideals to come flying out of his mouth as they did. It was certainly not this one.

"That," Enjolras said pointing at the tome in her hands, "is my book. I would like it back, please."

Éponine blinked at him, a small frown creased her forehead. She did not move.

Enjolras was beginning to fear the girl was simple. But, during his last interaction with her she seemed to have wit enough, even a little more than he had expected.

"Your book?"

"Yes."

"I thought . . . I thought it belonged to _Monsieur_ Marius."

"Apparently, for as well as your read, you did not bother to read the very first page."

Éponine opened the book and read the name written in the top left-hand corner. "'Adrien-Astor Enjolras'. But, isn't your name is Grégorie?"

In the back of his mind he felt a little twinge of guilt at the fact that she remembered his Christian name, but not he hers. "Yes. That is my father's name. It was his book." Enjolras said quietly.

"Oh." Éponine hastily shoved the book back into Enjolras' hands. "I'm so sorry. I wanted to impress Marius and know about what he and the rest of his friends are always discussing . . . you know . . . 'republic this' and 'republic that' . . ."

Normally, Enjolras would leap at the opportunity to enlighten a citizen, but he was irritated by her careless tossing about of the sacred word. He was also exhausted and would not waste what little energy he had left on a _gamine_ who only wanted to know on account of Marius.

"You should ask Pontmercy to explain it to you, although I doubt he could . . ."

Éponine's face brightened. Perhaps Marius had a copy of that book himself. She pictured the two of them, heads bent close together, much like today, over a book full of political jargon.

Enjolras watched Éponine's eyes glaze over and knew she was imagining it. Enjolras shook his head with an exasperated sigh. _How sad._

"_Bonne nuit_, _Mademoiselle_."

Enjolras gave Éponine a small bow and swept past her. He was five feet away before he heard a quiet "good night" from her in return.

* * *

I can't stop writing! My plot bunny is rabid and bit me! AGH!

Cognes: French slag for police.


	4. Lamarque is Dead

I just realized I put some things out of sequence when it came to the musical: I had Marius meeting Cosette before Lamarque's death. Oh, well. Thanks to all you lovely reviewers my rabbit is very happy! :)

* * *

**Lamarque is Dead**

A pair of brilliant blue eyes blinked at Éponine through the bars of the iron gate guarding the house on the Rue Plummet.

"Boy, please take this to _monsieur_ Pontmercy." Cosette whispered passing a small envelope through the bars. "And here is a _sou_ for your pains."

"_Merci, mademoiselle_," Éponine murmured, keeping her head down. There was no doubt in her mind that this was the same Cosette that she used to torment what seemed another lifetime ago; the little girl who used to daydream all day that she was _Cendrillon_ and that one day a prince would come and save her from life with the Thénardiers.

If Cosette recognized her now Éponine knew she would die of shame. Once upon a time _she_ was the one pampered and dressed in pretty clothes, Cosette had been the one in rags and hungry.

_The cruel irony . . ._

"You have my deepest gratitude. Hurry now, boy! It's getting dark and I'm sure your parents will be wanting you home soon."

Éponine dared a glance at the woman. Cosette flashed her a warm and encouraging smile.

_If I wasn't who I had been and was not who I am now . . . If you weren't in love with Marius . . . could we have been friends?_

Éponine was never sure why she had been so cruel to little Cosette back then, except just acting on the example of her parents perhaps . . . or maybe it was the fact that no matter how badly they treated Cosette her sunny disposition never fully clouded, a skill Éponine could never boast of. She would speak to Éponine of the kind and beautiful woman who would visit her in her dreams and Éponine would just laugh or cuff her. The poor girl had lived in a fantasy world . . . deriving her happiness from daydreams . . .

Éponine bit back a bitter laugh. _More irony_.

On the lonely trek back to the Café Musain it began to rain. Éponine ran in and out of doorways and under awnings in an effort to stay dry. She continued her introspection.

All around her were happy people: Marius and Cosette, Gavroche free as a lark roaming the streets, even the planning of a revolution gave that strange Enjolras joy.

A tear escaped before Éponine had a chance to stop it. She gave it a viscous swipe with her coat sleeve. It was all so unfair.

When would her turn come? Her turn at happiness?

. . . . . .

"Well, Courfeyrac! Do we have all the guns?" Enjolras went from comrade to comrade, looking over the list he made, tallying the amount of ammunition they had and what they still needed. "Feuilly, Combeferre! Our time is running short! Grantaire, put that bottle down! Do we have the guns we need?"

Grantaire waved him off. "We don't need guns. Give me brandy on my breath and I'll breathe them all to death!"

Enjolras smirked. "If it were only that simple."

"_LISTEN EVERYBODY_!"

All conversation and carousing stopped. Gavroche, the quick-witted, quick tongued street urchin was satisfied that he had everyone's attention.

"General Lamarque is dead."

Éponine pushed open the door of the café's backroom. All eyes were riveted on her little brother.

"Gavroche, what are you doing here?" She demanded.

Enjolras looked up at Éponine then to Marius.

"Get her out of here," he said quietly, jerking his head toward the door.

Marius got up from his chair and hastily ushered Éponine out.

"What's going on?"

"Not now, 'Ponine."

"Why—?"

"Lamarque is dead."

"So?"

"I don't have the time to explain. Just trust me and stay out here."

Éponine pouted. "That's not fair, Gavroche gets to stay. . ."

Marius went back into the room and a few seconds later Gavroche was shoved out.

"Well, that's gratitude for ya!" the child huffed.

"Tell me about it," Éponine muttered.

Gavroche flipped a coin in the air. "That sort of news deserved at least _two_ sous."

Éponine chuckled and put a hand on her brother's shoulder, steering him towards the entrance of the café.

"So, 'Vroche, what have you been doing with yourself?"

"Well . . ."

Her brother began to rattle off but she was not attending. She heard Enjolras' piercing voice bleed through the door:

"_On the tomb of Lamarque shall our barricade rise . . . the time is here! Let us welcome it gladly with courage and cheer . . . let us take to the streets with no doubt in our hearts! . . . They will come when we call!_"

An enthusiastic roar of approval erupted from the students.

Éponine shuddered.

* * *

A/N: _Cendrillon_: French Cinderella.


	5. Vermillion

******Vermillion**

Éponine looked at the letter in her hands. It was the one Cosette had given her to deliver to Marius. When she was first given it, it was white and smelled of perfume, the kind of _eau de toilette_ she imagined she wore in her daydreams. Now, after spending a day in her bodice it had become creased and smudged with soot and dirt. The perfume was barely detectable. She would give it to Marius anyway. He was expecting a reply from Cosette.

Éponine was tempted not to deliver it at all. If the letters stopped, he might think Cosette had thrown him over. Then maybe . . . _maybe_ he would finally see her. He would be heartbroken at first, but she could wait, would wait. After all, it was what she was best at, wasn't it?

Éponine pulled the letter from her breast and gripped it between her two dirty hands.

_Do it, Éponine! Rip it to pieces and be happy!_

Éponine fingers turned white, her hands began to shake. A tiny tear appeared at the top of the envelope.

And then that small, meek voice that was her abused conscience, pushed at her heart and willed her to stop.

She could not do it to Marius.

Éponine pulled at her hair in frustration.

_"Vivé Lamarque!"_

Sounds of weeping and a mournful dirge filled the air in and around Les Halles. Éponine made her way toward it.

It was the funeral procession of General Lamarque.

Éponine weaved her way through the spectators, glancing up at the platform where the coffin of Lamarque was displayed. She observed that most of the mourners were of the wretched poor like her. But as she looked on, a familiar face in the crowd caught her eye:

_Monsieur_ Combeferre.

Then another student came into view: monsieur Jean Prouvaire, then monsieur Courfeyrac, Bahorel . . .

Was Marius among them?

Éponine's heart sped up.

Was this it? Was the thing they had been planning in that infernal café about to happen? No, no, she reasoned with herself, they were just here to mourn their hero. They would not start something now. Not here. Would they?

_"On the tomb of Lamarque shall our barricade rise."_

Éponine began to walk again. Soon she practically broke into a run, keeping her eye on the coffin and the students intermittently. Then out of the corner of her eye there appeared a mass of vermillion. She turned towards it but could not stop herself in time and barreled into it. Éponine staggered and would have fallen had not a pair of strong arms grabbed her by the shoulders and held her still.

Cosette's letter fluttered from the _gamine's_ grimy fingers onto the pavement. Enjolras –for it was he who she ran into—bent down and retrieved it, then wordlessly handed it back to Éponine. As she received it she took in the sight of his vermillion waistcoat. It resembled an army uniform, down to the golden brass buttons that spanned the length of his chest. His usually meticulous cravat and collar were now loose and open.

"Thank you, _monsieur_," she murmured, barely heard over the noise of the city around them. Then she was gone and Enjolras continued on his way to the platform.

. . . . . .

"Combeferre, what have you found out from the leader of the _Saint-Merri_ barricade?"

"All in all, eight-hundred men have answered the call. Groups of twenty to each street are organizing. There are more barricades rising up all over the eastern side!"

Silence.

"Enjolras?"

"Only eight hundred?"

"And rising I'm sure, Grégoire."

Enjolras forced a smile and patted his friend on the shoulder. "Yes. More will come. I am thankful to those who have answered the call thus far." The golden-haired leader began to load his rifle. "Very thankful."

. . . . . .

"'Ponine? What are you doing here?" Marius hissed. "Don't you know it's dangerous?"

"That didn't stop you, why should it stop me?"

"Why are you dressed as a boy?"

"They're not allowing women behind the barricade. I meant to give you this letter when you shoved me from the backroom yesterday."

Éponine shoved the cursed packet of paper into his hands. His face transformed from stormy to sunny.

"From Cosette?"

"Who else?"

"Oh, how can I ever thank you, 'Ponine?"

_Oh, I could think of a thousand different things . . . _

Marius wrapped her in a tight hug. Éponine immediately threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder.

_. . . And this is one of them_.

Too soon the warmth of Marius' embrace was gone.

"Don't go away!" He said before bounding off to read his precious letter in some nook on the barricade.

Éponine sighed and sat down on a rocking chair that had been pulled from somewhere and placed on the barricade.

"You shouldn't be here, girl," a voice came quietly from a foot above her. It was Joly. "It would be bad for your health," he gave her a good-natured wink, amused by his own joke, if one could call it that.

"Ah," Éponine scratched the back of her neck in a sheepish manner, "my disguise is not as good as I thought. It's alright. I'll be gone soon, I think."


	6. The Last Letter

**The Last Letter**

Twilight was beginning to fall. Éponine watched the members of _les amis de l'abaissé_ scurry about the barricade distributing arms and ammunition. A priest had made an appearance and some of them, including Enjolras, were observing communion.

Grantaire was there at the barricade, also, though for what purpose she was not sure. He was not doing anything different from his normal activities in the café: drinking, singing and dozing. Éponine smiled wryly to herself. Grantaire had been the drunk "customer" she had to knock out on her own. She wondered if he had any recollection. It was best he did not; she would not want Marius getting wind of that part of her life of which she was sure he had an inkling, but all the same hoped he did not know.

"_Mademoiselle_ Thénardier, you should not be here," Enjolras commented as he passed by her, carrying red banners.

"You're the second man who's told me that."

"Why did you not listen the first time?"

Éponine was about to answer but Enjolras continued walking. She waited until he came her way again to inform him that she waiting for Marius to finish a letter.

Enjolras groaned. "Even at the very barricades he plays the lover . . . I don't know why I let him stay." With that he resumed his progress to the other end of the barricade.

"Don't you have a mistress, _Monsieur_?" She asked.

Enjolras halted his progress to give her a nonplussed look. Out of all the millions of _expected_ questions he had already been asked today, that was the last one he expected to hear.

"I do not believe in keeping mistresses."

"All your friends do."

"I am not my friends, _Mademoiselle_."

"Then you have never been in love?"

"No."

"Then it is no wonder you don't understand Marius," she said, mostly to herself.

Enjolras shifted the cartridge satchel strap on his shoulder and took a step toward her. "What _I_ don't understand is why you fan the flame of love between Marius and this woman by delivering their letters when you yourself are pining after him."

Éponine gave a sharp gasp and looked swiftly around; Marius was fortunately nowhere to be seen. She breathed a sigh of relief, then turned to glare at the young man.

"You wouldn't understand."

The lawyer in him wanted to debate, but he had more important things to do than to sit and argue with a delusional _gamine_.

"No, I suppose not," was all he said. He stood there for a moment then turned on his heel and left.

Fifteen minutes passed before Enjolras walked in front of Éponine again.

"If you're going to sit there at least make yourself useful." He removed a pouch from his vest pocket and handed it to her. Inside were strips of thick paper. "Make cartridge papers. Do you know how?"

"Yes."

"Good." Enjolras rose to his feet. He walked away. Five minutes later he was back.

"One last question, _Mademoiselle_."

Eponine gave him a wary look.

"You spent many evenings at our meetings. I'm sure you must have listened and formed your own opinions. I would like to hear them."

An anger that Éponine had not realized had been bubbling against this rabble-rousing republican finally came to a boil. She resented him for pulling Marius into his dangerous game of rebellion and false hope. In his question, she knew what he was really asking.

"They won't come, _Monsieur_."

Her sudden insight caught him off guard.

"Why do you say that?" he asked outwardly calm, but inwardly an anxious knot began to develop in his chest. His eyes flicked back and forth between her and _les amis_. Marius had better hurry with his letter. He would not have his men's morale destroyed just because some female could not reign in her emotions.

"The people you claim to be fighting for will not rise up. As nice as the words of liberty, equality and brotherhood are, they will not support the wives and children who are going to be without their husbands and fathers if they die in this fight. Being around to provide for their family another day is their chief concern, not your precious ideals, _Monsieur_."

"No one is promised tomorrow, _Mademoiselle_," Enjolras shot back. "Do you think I do not have familial responsibilities weighing on me as well? I am the only son of my late father. Once I obtain my _Master de droit_, it will fall to me to continue his Practice. I will be responsible for the estate and tenants. I have an ailing mother to support. But, I am able to set these aside because the house of Enjolras is not my only family. France is also my mother; the people, also my brothers and sisters and 'Patria', my only mistress! Freeing her is the best service I can render my blood, because if we are not free, what does the rest matter?"

A roar of approval arose from the _les amis de l'ABC_.

Éponine was about to argue another point but Enjolras had turned away.

"Enough, _Mademoiselle_. I have no time."

_Then why bother speaking to me in the first place?_

Marius suddenly appeared and thrust a freshly sealed letter into her hands, the papers dropping from her hands to flutter helter-skelter. The red wax reminded Éponine of blood. She forced down a sudden sick sensation in the pit of her stomach.

But all morbid thoughts were forgotten when Marius laid his hands on her shoulders and looked steadily into her eyes.

"After you deliver this letter go straight home, 'Ponine. Do you hear me?"

Éponine nodded dumbly.

"Good girl."

Enjolras and Marius watched as Éponine's skinny frame crawled up the barricade and disappeared over the crest of the flotsam.

"You speak to her as you would a dog," Enjolras remarked.

"I do not."

. . . . . .

"This letter is for your daughter, _Monsieur,_ from a boy at the barricades."

Jean Valjean hid his initial feeling of alarm at this information. When had this happened?

"Thank you. I will make sure she gets it." He handed Éponine a franc. Éponine marveled at it and thanked him profusely, but he humbly waved her gratitude away.

"Be careful as you go, boy, the streets are not safe tonight."

"Are they ever,_ Monsieur_?"

Jean Valjean did not answer but gave her a sad smile.

. . . . . .

Éponine stood for what seemed an hour at an intersection. One road led home to her cold flat and even colder family, another to certain danger and Marius.

She knew Marius would be mad at her if she returned. Rather than risk his anger Éponine decided to heed his command and turned toward home. She did not get far when she spied a large contingent of national guardsmen coming down the street towards her. Éponine darted down a nearby alleyway and flattened herself against the wall.

As they passed she quickly assessed their numbers and in a glance one could tell that there were at least five hundred men. Éponine poked her head out to see which direction they were going and if they were splitting off at all.

They did not separate but together turned onto the road that let to _Les Halles_. With no little horror Éponine realized that those five hundred were heading toward Enjolras' barricade, where there were only thirty men.

It would be a massacre. Marius would most certainly die. To Éponine a life without him was not worth living. She did not care if he was going to be angry with her. If he was going to die, she would die with him.

Éponine shot out from her hiding place and bolted down a street that she knew to be a shortcut to the _Rue de la Chanvrerie_.


	7. C'est n'est rien

**A/N: I hope this chapter is not too confusing. I switched between perspectives a few times. I took huge license with this chapter and ran with it like a mad woman.**

**. . . . . .**

**C'est n'est rien**

Éponine had never run so hard in her life, and that was saying something. Her throat began to burn as she gulped in air. She began to slow her pace in an effort to regain her breath. A roll of thunder clapped overhead.

At least, she hoped it was thunder.

The alley soon spilled onto the Rue de la Chanvrerie and she practically fell out of it. There she beheld a sea of red coats spreading out before the barricade like a pool of blood. The soldiers were fixing their bayonets. The cold steel spears winked at her like so many stars as they were put in place. If she was going to scale the barricade, it would have to be now. Éponine grasped the leg of an upended table and began her ascent. She progressed slowly and carefully, hoping the muddy brown of her coat would help her blend in.

Ten minutes later she was almost at the top when suddenly a flash of lightning illuminated her efforts.

"There's a boy climbing the barricade!"

Two shots rang out and reverberated off of the empty shops and silent townhouses.

. . . . . .

The_ Amis de l'ABC_ stood ready with their muskets to greet whoever it was who had decided to make such a rash endeavor. After Javert they were not so welcoming to more strangers just showing up to join their rebellion, with the exception of the curious snowy-haired old man who had already made a deadly demonstration of his loyalty.

Enjolras peered over the sights of his rifle into the smoke and gloom.

"_Monsieur Marius_!" Came the sharp whisper from the other side of the barricade, somewhere near the top. Extreme annoyance gripped Enjolras when he recognized the _gamin's_ voice.

_Damned foolish girl! Is Marius worth your life?_

"Good God, 'Ponine! What are you doing? Why did you come back here? Are you hurt?"

"_I don't know . . . I'm near the top, but I'm afraid to move. They saw me when the lightening flashed, but now I think I'm hidden in the dark, but if I move . . ."_

"Stay still, I'm coming to get you . . ."

_"No! They'll shoot you!"_

Marius looked around him helplessly. The other amis gazed back at him, mirroring his look.

_"Marius!"_

"What is it?"

_"They're coming!"_

"Back to your stations!" Courfeyrac cried. The Amis scrambled into their niches in the barricade and stuck their gun barrels through the small openings.

. . . . . .

"Take aim!" Éponine heard Enjolras' cold clear voice shout. "Fire!"

Éponine clapped her hands over her ears and curled up tightly. The explosion came, the barricade shuddered and the world disappeared into smoke.

A deafening silence reigned for a moment, then came the wails and groans of the wounded. Éponine opened one eye. There were quite a few down, but there were plenty still standing and they reloaded their pieces in silence.

Suddenly, there was a light and she heard a beloved voice boom above her.

"Begone, or I'll blow up the barricade!"

"Blow up the barricade?" cried an incredulous sergeant, who was nearest Éponine. "and yourself also?"

"And myself also."

Éponine craned her neck and was just able to make out Marius' figure about six feet above her, a torch in his outstretched hand and dangerously close to a large keg of powder.

_Are you mad?_

The guards perceived the desperate gleam in the lovelorn man's eyes and backed away. But, many of them kept taking swift glances to their right.

Suddenly, Éponine heard a scrambling sound close by on her left. She turned her head and saw, a little below her, that a lone guardsman had inched his way up the barricade and was already taking aim at Marius. His finger was already on the trigger.

Éponine lunged forward and, grabbing the musket barrel with her left hand, pulled it down just as it discharged. The barricade responded with a volley and were answered.

"'Ponine, are you alright? Can you make it over the side? . . . 'Ponine? Hurry, as they're reloading!"

"I'm coming . . ."

. . . . . .

Éponine clumsily swung herself over the side, holding her injured hand inside her coat. Marius was still by the barrel, Enjolras, Coufeyrac and Bahorel were covering her with their carbines.

"Good God, what are you doing, 'Ponine?" He repeated. "Have you no fear? I told you not to come back . . . but, tell me, have you seen my beloved? Why have you come back here?"

Marius' voice, which normally was like music to Éponine's ears, was now hurting them.

". . . Took the letter like you said, I met her father at the door . . ."

Her head felt like it was floating away.

" . . . he said he would give it to her . . . I . . . I don't think I can stand any. . ." Éponine did not finish her sentence as the barricade seemed to take on a life of it's own and rush up to her.

Marius quickly caught her and held her as he eased both of them to the ground.

"'Ponine, are you hurt?" Hearing the alarm in Marius' voice made her feel oddly comforted. He was worried for her. "There's something wet upon your hair . . ."

Was there? All she knew was that Marius was brushing it away from her face. She leaned into his touch.

Marius' stomach clenched at the sight of her blood on his fingers. "Éponine, you _are_ hurt, you need some help!" Marius quickly withdrew his hand to open her coat. "Oh, God! It's everywhere!"

Éponine looked down to see the blood pouring from her wounded hand, and then noticed red blossoming near her shoulder, staining her chemise. Suddenly the pain hit her. She gritted her teeth. The adrenaline from the climb mixed with fear had dulled it.

"_Ce'st n'est rien_, _Monsieur_ Marius," she whispered, fighting down her own feeling of panic. "It doesn't hurt. Really."

"I'm going to get Joly," Marius moved as if to set Éponine down, but she gripped his shirtsleeves.

"No. Stay. _Please_."

Marius stilled, but continued to look around for Joly. Courfeyrac thought he had seen him slip into the Corinthe to set up a makeshift hospital.

Enjolras quietly stepped closer to Éponine and Marius, loath to disturb what were likely to be the girl's last moments.

_What a shame . . . she won't see the new world we create tonight . . . Why didn't she stay away?_

Thunder sounded again. A raindrop splashed onto Éponine's cheek and slid down like a tear. Marius let out a sound of distress and bent further over her in an effort to shield her from the rain.

"Don't you fret, _Monsieur_ Marius . . . a little fall of rain can hardly hurt me now," she tried to chuckle, but it came out as a cough that racked her broken body. Marius held her tightly, but still she grew colder with each passing moment.

_Oh, well. If death is what it took to be held like this by Marius, I'm happy. Soon, I'll be free from my hell of a life and I'll take with me such a memory . . ._

"Éponine . . ." Marius' trembling voice cut into her thoughts "I'm so sorry . . . This is all my fault . . ."

The waif put a cool finger to Marius' lips, shushing him like one would a child.

"It's alright . . . Just hold me close . . . until the end."

"No! Listen to me, 'Ponine, you're going to live! You have to . . . oh, God . . ."

Marius' voice was beginning to sound to Éponine like it was coming from the end of a long tunnel.

" . . . If I could close your wounds with words of love . . ."

_Love?_

Those precious words cut through the haze of pain. For a moment things grew clear again.

"_Monsieur_ . . ." she croaked, "loves me?" Some of the color that had been leaving her cheeks returned.

Marius glanced over Éponine's battered shoulder at Enjolras who was leaning on the butt of his rifle like a silent sentinel, an intensely empathetic expression etched on his handsome face. He realized what Pontmercy was doing.

Marius looked back down at Éponine, her lips were swiftly losing their color. Large tears rolled down his youthful face and splashed onto her hers. "Yes, I do," he choked out.

The largest smile Marius had ever seen appeared on Éponine's face. It was beautiful.

The _gamine_ tightened her arms around Marius' neck and made a clearly painful effort with the last of her strength to raise her whitening lips toward his, supplicating . . .

"Marius?"

"I'm here, 'Ponine . . ."

_Forgive me, Cosette._

Pontmercy leaned down and gently pressed his mouth against hers.

Éponine gave out a long satisfied sigh and surrendered herself to the darkness.

Her turn had finally come . . . and gone.

. . . . . .

"Éponine? . . . No!" Marius crushed the waif's lifeless body to him and began to rock back and forth. "I'm so sorry . . . so sorry . . ."

"She is the first to fall . . ." Enjolras said solemnly, "the first of us to fall upon this barricade."

Marius stilled his rocking and raised a tear-streaked face to his companions who had gathered around them.

"Her name was Éponine," he said hoarsely. "Her life was cold and dark, yet she was unafraid."

Combeferre knelt beside the grief-stricken baron. "We fight here in her name."

"She will not die in vain," Provaire added firmly.

"She will not be betrayed," Lesgles whispered.

Courfeyrac moved to take Éponine from Marius, but the young man seemed hesitant to let her go.

"Marius, the attack will begin soon . . ."

Enjolras also knelt beside him, and putting a hand on his shoulder, met his sad gaze firmly. "We need you, Pontmercy."

Marius nodded slowly, seeming to come back to himself. He loosened his grip on Éponine and Enjolras gently gathered the girl in his arms, grimacing at how horribly light she was.

The leader of the _Amis_ headed toward the Corinthe, the wineshop and café that was their second headquarters. As he walked he glanced down at the poor gamine's still face illuminated by the moonlight. It reminded him of another time when he had seen her face by the same pale light. The sight of her peaceful expression filled him with grief. Pontmercy had told him a little of what the poor waif's life had been like and it was a tragic shame. Yes, it was a tragic shame that the only time this poor soul knew peace was in death.

Enjolras' passion for the freedom of France, which already knew no bounds, increased ten fold.

Suddenly, Enjolras heard a sharp gasp, like someone who had been underwater for a long time had finally broken through to the surface.

"Mar . . . ius?"

In his shock Enjolras almost dropped her.

Éponine was alive.

"Joly!" Enjolras desperately scanned the silent street. "_JOLY_!"

The medical student came bounding out of the wine shop.

"My apologies! I just spent all my time sanitizing the surfaces I'll be using. Who knows when Ma'am Hucheloup last gave that place a thorough cleaning? It was certainly not this past spring."

"Not now, Joly. Tend to her."

Joly peered at Eponine and his eyes widened. "Yes. Quickly!" Enjolras followed him into the Corinthe.

Joly motioned for Enjolras to place Eponine on the long sales counter. The medical student hefted his _tourniquet_ to where she lay and set to work.

"Will she . . . ?" Enjolras ventured.

"Only God knows. But, I'll do my best,"

Enjolras lingered for a moment, then report of rifles came rumbling down the street.

Joly looked at him sharply, clear apprehension in his blue eyes. He soon smothered it with a wry grin. "Go on. Go and ravish your _Patria_."

Enjolras laughed. "_Pour la l__iberté_," he murmured.

"_Pour la liberté_." Joly said with a nod.

Enjolras left the shop and raced down the street back toward the barricade.

* * *

C'est n'est rien: It is nothing.


	8. The Barricade Falls

**The Barricade Falls**

The premiere attack had been fierce but not as bad as Enjolras had secretly feared. A few had some wounds, but nothing Joly could not handle.

Enjolras sidled up to the medical student as he finished tying a muslin strip around a bullet graze on Bahorel.

"She's sleeping," Joly murmured.

"Sleeping or . . . _sleeping_?"

"Sleeping in the non-biblical sense." Joly said with a small smirk.

Enjolras stole a glance at Marius who was sitting, exhausted, on the rocking chair once occupied by Eponine.

Enjolras moved over to him and handed him a pouch full of freshly-made cartridges.

"You know," Marius murmured as he began to reload his weapon, "I think I always knew . . ."

"Always knew . . .?"

"How 'Ponine felt. I just . . . did not want to acknowledge it . . . ignored it . . . I took advantage of those feelings, somehow knowing that she would do whatever I asked because of them . . ."

For once, Enjolras did not know what to say. He was out of his depth here.

"Was I wrong to lie? I wanted her last moments to be happy . . ."

"Lying is a sin," was all Enjolras said.

Marius' face contorted with guilt.

"Will I go to hell?" He whispered in an almost child-like voice, as if re-living an infantile fear.

Enjolras did not answer. He was not sure if Marius was asking him or the air.

Marius gazed at him a little longer. "Enjolras, do you believe?"

"Yes."

"But, then . . . how do you justify this?" Marius gestured to the barricade and then the musket in his hand.

"When the Lord arrived at the temple in Jerusalem and saw corrupt money-changers occupying the courtyard, cheating those buying sacrifices—in front of God's house, he fell into a righteous rage and chased them out, beating them with a length of rope."

Marius blinked at him. "Oh." He resumed loading his rife.

"Enjolras!" Bahorel came jogging up from the other end of the barricade.

"What is it?"

"Our ammunition is nearly spent. We can withstand one more attack . . . nothing more."

Unseen by Bahorel, Enjolras, or the rest of the _Amis_, but seen by God, a small figure slipped away and climbed over the barricade.

. . . . . .

A shot rang out and with the last of his dying strength little Gavroche tossed the dearly bought bag of bullets over the barricade. Enjolras barely had any time register what had happened when the National Guard opened up on them. He channeled his grief and outrage into his carbine and he shot down more guardsmen than ever before.

. . . . . .

Enjolras gripped the hand of a dying Combeferre. Jean Prouvaire had a hand pressed to the stomach wound that was bleeding profusely.

"I'll fetch Joly," Enjolras said.

"You forget," Combeferre murmured, "I have some medical knowledge, too, Enjolras. I'm not going to make it."

Enjolras fought the rising tide of panic. What would he do without his best friend? His ballast? Combeferre was his side of temperance in this revolution.

Where Enjolras would say "charge and destroy," he would say, "wait and listen," where Enjolras saw an obstacle to be obliterated, Combeferre saw an opportunity to philosophize as to why it was an obstacle.

"I can't do this without you," Enjolras choked and gripped his hand harder. Combeferre began to spasm as the hands of heaven pulled at his soul.

"_Adieu, mon amis_."

"No! Prouvaire, press harder!"

"I see Him, Enjolras!" Combeferre cried out, a look of peace came over the face that had been grimacing with contortions.

"See who?" Enjolras asked, although he feared he knew the answer.

Combeferre shuddered one last time before going still.

Prouvaire mournfully backed away from his friend's body and crossed himself. Enjolras continued to hold Combeferre's hand as he bent over him, shutting his eyes against the tears that threatened to spill. He would not cry now; he knew if he cried now he would not be able to stop.

"You at the barricade, listen to this!"

Enjolras' head whipped up at the harsh voice of a lone national guardsman, all grief momentarily forgotten.

"You're on your own, you have no friends, give up your guns or die!"

_They're preparing to storm the barricades._

Enjolras let go of Combeferre's hand and rose. He swiftly grabbed a red banner and turned a blazing pair of eyes on his comrades.

"Damn their warnings, damn the their lies! They will see the people rise!" The _Amis_ repeated his cries. Enjolras bounded up the side of the barricade, banner in hand, the red flag flying behind him. To the _Amis_ Enjolras took on the appearance of an avenging angel, red wings outstretched, taking off to do battle. They eagerly ran behind him with weapons at the ready.

"UNTIL THE EARTH IS FREE!"

. . . . . .

As each bullet pierced his friends around him, Enjolras felt the weight of responsibility increase.

Courfeyrac.

Laigle.

Prouvaire.

Bahorel.

Feuilly.

Grantaire.

And a dozen other brave souls that had joined them the day before.

_What have I done?_ Echoed in his mind. He had repeated to the friends of the ABC. that they should expect victory but also be prepared for martyrdom. As often as he had reminded himself of this possibility he was still surprised. He had planned every minute detail of this rebellion, he had been so sure . . . perhaps too sure . . .

The timing had not been right after all.

A bullet ripping through his side brought him out of his reverie, he had been shooting at guardsmen but his mind had been far away. Another bullet grazed his shin, bringing him down on one knee, another passed through his thigh and his hand. Then, lastly, one pierced his shoulder and knocked him off the barricade.

_Forgive me, Patria. I tried._

With a sickening thud Enjolras hit the pavement.

. . . . . .

The next thing the fair-haired man was aware of was someone rummaging through his vest. Feverish fingers pulled out his watch fob and timepiece, ripping it from its moorings. The devilish digits then made their way to the opening of his collar, greedily grasping the delicate gold chain that lay there.

With a strength he had thought gone, Enjolras grabbed the offending hand.

"Ah, still alive, are we?" The harsh voice of the robber then chuckled, "I'm having a distinct sense of _déjà vu_."

Enjolras fought to open his eyes. Through his lashes he glimpsed the visage of a yellow-tinged, skinny, angular face. A black cap was on his head and he could just make out the epaulets of a Napoleonic uniform.

The oddly dressed street rat yanked at the chain. Enjolras fought to hold on but his strength was waning. Thénardier—for it was he—grinned in triumph as he felt the young man's grip begin to weaken.

Suddenly, a shout interrupted his efforts. A young bespectacled man brandishing a pistol was running toward him from the direction of the wine-shop.

Thénardier knew when to cut his losses and vanished into the gloom as quickly as he had come, back into the fetid safety of the Parisian sewers.

Enjolras slipped back into the dark as well.


	9. Musichetta

**Musichetta**

A woman was singing. That was the first thing Éponine knew. The second thing was that her head hurt. She tried to open her eyes, but her lashes seemed to be stuck together. She tried to lift her head but, her neck muscles were clearly not up to the task and she lay back down. Éponine attempted to lift her right arm so she could rub away the sleep but pain shot through her shoulder blades. She tried the other arm. Less pain. She wiped her eyelashes and opened her eyes.

The light dazzled her. For a split second she panicked. Was she dead? Was the singing that of angels? It was certainly pretty enough to be—but wait, angels would not be singing _"Au Clair de la Lune"_.

Then her eyes adjusted and she found herself staring at a white plaster ceiling and a very low-angle view of a generous garret window with the red light of a setting sun streaming through the panes.

The song stopped with an "Oh!" A clicking of heels and a beautiful brunette with bright emerald eyes loomed into view. As she leaned over to inspect Éponine her dark curls escaped from her upswept bun to fall on a set of tan shoulders peeking out of a fashionably cut gown.

"Jean, I think she's awake."

Éponine heard a crash and then the pounding of bare feet against wooden floors.

"Jean, are you all right?"

"I'm fine. I should know better than to leave my _tourniquet_ there."

A disheveled Joly, just putting on his glasses, came into Eponine's line of vision.

"Good morning . . . _Mademoiselle_."

Éponine said nothing, but stared confusedly up at him.

"How are we feeling?"

_I don't know about you, but I feel like I've been shot. What kind of a stupid question . . .?_ Éponine did not manage to say any of this because the only sound that came out of her mouth was a hideous croak.

"Musichetta, water for the patient, if you please."

"_Oui, _Doctor," Musichetta trilled, her delight with playing nurse was the same as a child's when playing dress-up.

As the _grisette_ went to fetch water from the pump, Joly began his examination. He propped up against the wall, beside Éponine's head, a large book and thumbed through the pages as he looked at Eponine's wounds.

Éponine managed to turn her head a little—just enough to peer at the tome. She saw a lot of diagrams of the human body with the muscles illustrated in fine detail. It was a medical textbook. Dread overcame her, but then she forced herself to be calm. She had survived this far under his care, surely Joly knew what he was doing . . .

"Thanks be to God," the young man said at last, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his thin nose, "there seems to be no infection. I won't have to amputate after all."

Joly saw the _gamine's_ eyes widen. He hastily made further reassurances. "But, a lot of the nerves have been severed. I don't know if you'll regain full use of that hand . . ."

_It was a small price to pay for Marius' sake . . . I just hope it wasn't in vain . . ._

As she gazed at the heavily bandaged hand that rested on her stomach she noticed that she was no longer wearing the boy's clothes she had on at the barricade. Instead, she was in a dull green, twice-turned, day dress. She also realized that, for the first time in a long time, her head no longer itched. Her her hair had been washed—and not only her hair, but her whole body.

Musichetta returned with the water. The _grisette_ noticed the gamine inspecting her hands and touching the clean locks.

"Joly had me sponge bathe you and give you a change of clothes, to help keep the wounds clean."

Éponine turned crimson. She was ashamed of any one seeing her poor excuse for a woman's body, all broken, bruised and thin. But the idea that this beautiful creature of the working class had seen it and probably clucked her tongue at the sight was doubly worse.

Joly put a hand behind Éponine's head and gingerly helped her take a few sips from the glass. She tried to greedily gulp down the water, but Joly would not let her. He pulled the glass away, even as Éponine's lips pathetically strained after it.

"I don't think Musichetta or her roommate would be pleased if you vomited on their garret floor."

"M . . . arius?" Eponine managed to croak out.

Joly looked hesitant, as if calculating what to say, but then gave up with a sigh.

"I don't know."

"I must find him!" Eponine made a desperate attempt to get up.

"No." Joly said simply. He applied light pressure to her shoulder with his hand and that was enough to send her back to her pallet.

Éponine threw Joly the deadliest glare her blood-shot eyes could muster, the one that made even the _Patron-Minette_ hesitate. Joly shuddered but managed to say:

"You will not get far on your own, not in your condition; then what use will you be to Marius?"

Éponine pinned Joly with one last glower that made him back away. She decided to stay put, but that did not prevent her eyes from nervously pacing the room. She looked and felt like a caged animal.

Joly leaned towards Musichetta and whispered something. Éponine's ears, well trained by survival, heard everything: "_Chérie_, I'm going to go out for a moment. Keep an eye on her and keep Enjolras' forehead cool."

_Enjolras is here? He of all people would know what happened to Marius._

Musichetta grabbed Joly's arm as he made to leave. "Jean, as much as I enjoy playing nurse . . . and as handsome as your friend is . . . they have already been here three days . . . they cannot stay here much longer."

"I know." Joly gave a helpless shrug then left.

Éponine watched Musichetta's movements; Musichetta spared her a wary glance before moving towards a four-poster bed that was situated across from Éponine, at the other end of the room. Beside the bed was a nightstand, and on the nightstand a basin of water. Musichetta took from the figure on the bed a rag and dipped it in the bowl before replacing it.

Éponine deduced that it was Enjolras on the bed. She was not surprised nor was she particularly offended that she was on the floor and the bourgeois student-leader of the "ABC" was in the bed. Such was the way of things. She was not even disturbed by the look Musichetta gave her as she returned to her chair by the door: as if Éponine was polluting her garret by her mere presence. Musichetta did not much care for ungrateful people who sent murderous looks her Joly's way.

However, the one thing that did bother Éponine was the fact that Enjolras was still unconscious. If he did not wake up soon and tell her of Marius' fate, she just might shake him, never mind his injuries.

. . . . . .

Joly returned with a bulging valise and three books tucked under his arm.

"What's that?" asked Musichetta.

"All I managed to get out of Enjolras' flat. I dared not stay longer, just in case the gendarmes should appear. I heard that they have some members of the other barricades in interrogation, trying to pry names from them. I also stopped by my own flat. I wonder how long it will be before the police realize I gave them a false name and address and come looking for me?"

Éponine perked up. She had been staring into space for the past half-hour, thinking of Marius. An imagined image of his lifeless body sprawled against the barricade would not leave her alone. She sought a distraction.

"What's this about gendarmes and false names?"

Joly set down Enjolras' things. "When the National Guard stormed the barricade they eventually found their way to my 'hospital' in the Corinthe. I had already covered you two with some sheets I had found in a back room, declared you both dead and was carting you two away. I told them that I was just an innocent university student; I got caught on the wrong side of the barricades, but followed my solemn duty as a doctor to tend to the wounded. I also explained why I was taking your bodies. I told them that the university needed fresh corpses for surgical demonstrations. But, instead of letting me be on my merry way, as I had hoped, they then enlisted me to tend to _their_ wounded. I'm so glad neither of you died while I was nursing the enemy."

During his chatter Joly kept his tone light, almost irreverent, but his blood-shot eyes and the dark circles under them belied it all.

"How is Enjolras, Musichetta?"

"As handsome as ever."

Joly gave her a pained look.

"Oh, alright. His fever seems to have abated a bit, but I don't know, I'm no doctor."

Joly pulled a thermometer out of a bag near the bedstead and gingerly placed it in Enjolras' mouth. He pulled out his pocket watch and waited. After twenty minutes he measured the mercury and jotted down the temperature in a little notebook he always kept on his person.

"A vast improvement from yesterday. I think it is safe to move them now."

"Where are we going?" asked Eponine.

"My parents have a town house on the _île Saint-Louis_. They are away in their country estate for the summer season. We should be safe for a time there. Musichetta, is Evangeline here? We may need her help."

"No, she's next door. I'll go fetch her." A flutter of skirts and Musichetta was out the door.

A few minutes went by but soon enough the sounds of a grumbling girl floated up the staircase.

"Pierre was quite put out you know . . . suddenly leaving him like that, mid-sonnet! I wonder if he'll ever speak to me again!"

"Oh! Never mind about Pierre! Jean and his friends are leaving and need our help."

"When you say friends, you mean that sick but terribly, terribly handsome man?"

"Yes."

The sound of footsteps quickened and a girl burst into the room. The first thing to make an appearance was not the young woman, but the triumph of blonde curls that fluttered about her face. Éponine felt a sudden pang of envy and sub-consciously touched her own limp locks. At least she was clean.

. . . . . .

Once Eponine was installed inside the _fiacre_, the trio gingerly lifted and maneuvered Enjolras into the seat across from her. Joly then got in and sat next to Enjolras, holding on to him to make sure he did not slide out of his seat.

The fading light flashed through the fiacre windows as they sped off into the falling night.

. . . . . .

A/N: Oddly enough, when I picture Joly, I picture Eddie Redmayne who's going to be playing Marius in the upcoming film. I definitely prefer musical Marius to book Marius. I liked Book Marius at first but then he got so emo it made me want to smack him.

Fiacre: Hackney coach.


	10. Delirium

**Delirium**

"Careful, my good man, I don't want to add head injury to his list of wounds!"

The _fiacre_ driver just rolled his eyes as they negotiated Enjolras' large frame through the door of the townhouse.

Éponine had been sent into the house first and then into the parlor. She gingerly drew back the curtains, fingering the rich silk damask. The streetlamps lining the _Quai d'Anjou_ lit up the room with a pale light. She turned and gazed at her surroundings in awed silence: Portraits in gilded frames, a small crystal chandelier, dentil molding; yes, even in the dimness she could make out that the interior decoration was very fine and in the best of taste. Much like Joly: impeccably dressed yet approachable. All the furniture was still swathed in holland sheets, waiting for the owners' return.

With old habits dying hard her clever eyes swept over everything of value that she could see, mentally cataloging each item and quietly calculating the value these things would have in the black markets of the Parisian underground.

Once she realized what she was doing she shook her head, as if hoping to dislodge the darkness.

Éponine heard the tramping of feet in the hall and assumed the driver had left. Joly appeared in the doorway.

"You are a right proper _bourgeois_, _Monsieur_."

Joly gave a small smile. "Yes, I suppose I am."

Éponine moved over to a painting hanging over what appeared to be a pianoforte by the shape of it. The portrait depicted two similar looking young men, one sitting on a stone bench and the other standing next to him with a hand on his shoulder. Behind the two men was a typical pastoral backdrop of fields and trees.

"That's me and my eldest brother," Joly said after noticing her inspection of it. "It was painted before I left for university."

"It's a good likeness."

Joly glanced at the portrait and winced. "You think so? I personally wish his brush had been a little less zealous with my freckles."

Éponine giggled, probably for the first time in a long time but it was cut short when a wave of dizziness swept over her. Her legs threatened to give way under her. Éponine stumbled to a covered wingback chair and sat down heavily. The carriage ride must have taken more out of her than she thought.

Joly rushed over to her and made a quick inspection of her vitals. Satisfied that she was not in any great danger the medical student gently took her by the elbow and led through the foyer and up the stairs.

The sight of the corridor brought to Éponine's mind the corridor of the Gorbeau house where she, her family and Marius had lived for a time. The precious run-ins she would have with Marius in that corridor as he ran off to class . . .

_Please, God, let Marius be alive and safe . . ._

"This will be your room." Joly opened a door at the end of the hall and Éponine stepped in.

Her room . . . _Her room!_

To a bourgeois girl the room was simple, but to Éponine it was luxurious. By the light of the candle in Joly's hand Éponine could see that the walls were papered in an elegant pattern of pink primroses. Ahead of her was a window with damask curtains, to her right was the bed; a canopied affair. On the wall to her right, beyond the bed, there was a fireplace. To the left of the window was a washstand, complete with basin, pitcher and towel. Under Éponine's feet was a rug patterned with primroses, like the wallpaper.

Éponine absently touched the paper flowers on the wall as she stepped into the room. She paused for a moment then suddenly backed out of the space as if something in it had frightened her.

"Perhaps, if you just have a little cot by the kitchen for me to sleep on . . . that would be better, monsieur."

"No," Joly said firmly and steered her back into the room.

"But, monsieur . . . I'll dirty it . . ."

Joly looked at her quizzically. "You've had a bath, you're wearing clean clothes. I don't see how you could possibly . . ."

"Never mind, monsieur. I will stay." Éponine really did not have the energy to explain herself, she was not even sure she could.

"Anyway," Joly continued, "I'll need an extra pair of eyes and ears for our patient, just in case he stirs. I put him in the room next to yours. If you need anything, just pull this." Joly moved over to the bed and touched the bell-pull that was hanging near the headboard.

"I sent a message home two days ago requesting the use of two of our servants to wait on me and two friends here . . . I wonder if my missive went astray . . . They should have been here before us . . ."

As if on cue the front door flew open and in breezed a stout man; his thinning hair pulled back in a black ribbon, his clothes also black and reminiscent of the century before.

"_Se dépêcher_, Joséphine! Quickly!"

"I'm hurryin' as fast as I can, Anatole, but you've left me with all the baskets!"

A willowy woman of middle age in a weathered cloak, work dress and straw bonnet slightly askew, stepped into the foyer. Baskets of various sizes hung about her arms like so many bracelets.

Anatole irritably took the baskets from her.

"Here, while I take these to the kitchen you start removing the dust covers."

Joséphine, gladly relieved of her burden set eagerly about her task.

"Anatole, Joséphine!" Joly called to them from the top of the stairs.

Joséphine gave out a startled screech and looked up. "Master Jean! Oh, dear, oh! We had hoped we had made it here before you! Oh, dear! Nothing's ready!"

Joly waved aside her fretting with good-humor. He motioned for Éponine to stay in her room then descended the stairs.

"It is alright. I'm just glad you made it at all."

"So are we," said Anatole coming up from the kitchens below.

"We sure had a bad time getting into Paris, what with the riots and all . . ."

"Indeed?" Joly ventured.

"Them rabble-rousers disturbin' the king's peace all the time . . ."

"Yes, thank you, Anatole. I'll let you see to the arrangement of things. You will act as butler and Joséphine, you will be housekeeper and maid. The length of my stay is indefinite. You do not need to air out all the rooms, just three upstairs: Alphonse's, Élise's, and mine, and two down here: the parlor and the dining room . . . and of course, the kitchen. The two rooms upstairs are being occupied by two dear friends of mine who were unfortunately caught in the crossfire of three days ago."

Anatole wondered to himself why Master Jean did not just take them to a hospital, but it was not his place to question.

"Very good, monsieur."

"And now," Joly said, stretching his arms and emitting a great yawn, "I believe I shall go to bed. Good night."

"Good night, Master Jean."

Joly slowly ascended the stairs, wishing—not for the first time that night—that Musichetta were with him.

Suddenly, a crash, like the sound of a chair being overturned, came from the direction of Enjolras' room.

Joly took the stairs two at a time. Joséphine and Anatole made to follow him but he motioned for them to stay back.

He found Enjolras' door open and Éponine standing in the frame. Enjolras was standing at the far end of the room. His arms were crossed. He looked on Éponine with an imperious eye and haughty stare. His golden locks plastered to the pale forehead bathed in sweat. His strong chin was shadowed with stubble. Even in his disarray, he was formidable and Éponine dared not approach him.

"Shoot me," he said, in a tone that would have been labeled as bravely defiant if he were perhaps facing down a group of soldiers, perhaps that was what he thought he was doing.

Joly slipped past Éponine and ran towards Enjolras. The former leader of the amis took no notice of him and continued to stare in Éponine's direction. Quick as a flash, Joly reached into his bag that had been near the bed and took out a bottle. He upended the bottle briefly over a handkerchief. Then he made his cautious way toward Enjolras. He barely waved the handkerchief under his friend's nose and the man collapsed into his arms.

Éponine watched as Joly dragged Enjolras back into bed.

"Delirium. Brought on by the fever," Joly said simply.

"Was he wounded very badly?" Éponine ventured.

"I removed eight bullets from his person and closed two saber slashes."

Éponine raised a hand to her lips in an effort to stifle the sharp gasp that escaped anyway. She looked down at that leader of ideals and men, Grégorie Enjolras, and the stirrings of pity finally reached her heart. She had been so wrapped up in her own concerns—meaning really her concerns for Marius—she had not thought of Enjolras, outside of him getting well enough to tell her of Marius. Now, as she looked down at that still face that had once been so full of life and passion for a future that only he could see, she began to hope for his wellbeing, for his own sake.

There was a basin by the bed already filled with water and a hand towel. Éponine squeezed the excess water from the towel and bathed Enjolras' face and forehead. Joly gave Éponine a tired smile and gently took the towel from her.

"You should go to sleep. I'll see to him."

Éponine, after the excitement was over, felt again the weariness caused by the long, eventful day and stumbled off to her own bed. The minute her head touched that ever so soft pillow, softer than any pillow she ever had under head in her life, she was asleep.


	11. A Broken Dam

**A Broken Dam**

Sweat dripped down the brow creased with concern of Jean-Baptiste Joly. Enjolras' startling bout of delirium had re-opened five of his eight wounds. As little as his friend surprised him anymore, Joly was still shocked by the almost inhuman burst of strength that had come from his comrade in that strange moment. An ordinary man in Enjolras' condition would not have been able to sit up, much less stand.

Joly bent over his friend, applying boracic lint, silver nitrate, and cleansing suppuration until dawn lit up the sky.

. . . . . .

Only an hour into her sleep Éponine woke up and could not return to it. She was still in the day dress and sweat had made it stick to her uncomfortably. Éponine crawled out of the bed and undid the buttons down her back, much to the painful protest of her injured shoulder. She tried to be as careful as possible, knowing Joly would not appreciate a re-opening of wounds.

Once she freed herself of the garment she climbed back into the bed, now dressed only in the chemise and petticoat. But, still she could not get back to sleep. Somehow, Éponine knew what was wrong. She pulled the coverlet from the bed, set it on the floor near the window and lay down, falling back to sleep almost immediately. Such behavior has been observed in dogs that were formerly in a pound and had been taken in by benevolent people. The dog, offered a soft couch to sleep on is satisfied to sit and enjoy it for a while, but finds that it is so accustomed to the hard stone surface of the kennel it lately left, it is not comfortable any where else just yet.

This is what unconsciously happened to Éponine, who was accustomed to sleeping on a thin pallet or the pavement.

. . . . . .

The next morning Éponine was rudely awakened by a woman's shrieking voice followed by a light blow to her side. Éponine opened her eyes to see a livid willowy woman towering over her.

"How in the world did a _gamine_ get in here?! Out! Out, urchin!" With each exclamation of "out" Joséphine hit Éponine with a broom, which she was brandishing, tightly held between her work-roughened hands.

Éponine, with all the dexterity she could muster, scrambled to her feet. She tried to get an explanation out, but was chased from the room then pursued down the stairs by Joséphine, who, in her rage, with wisps of red hair flying from under her cap, she resembled an indignant Furie of Roman mythology. It was ironic to Éponine that she, who could foil her father and stare down the _Patron-Minette_, was no match for Joséphine.

"I was invited!" Éponine managed to shout out as she stumbled through the foyer.

That only served to throw Joséphine into an even greater frenzy. The woman gave a loud gasp.

"Master Joly would never entertain a prostitute!"

Éponine caught a glimpse of herself in the foyer mirror as she rushed through. Despite her clean skin, in being dressed in only the chemise and petticoat she very much resembled the _gamine_ of the Gorbeau house. She was still considerably thin and wan, a condition not helped by her convalescence.

"Out!" Joséphine gave one more cry and yanking open the front door, forced her out on the front step, and then slammed the door in her face.

Éponine perhaps would have fought a little harder to remain inside the townhouse if she felt she had had a right to be there. She had stayed in order to heal and to learn of Marius' fate. But . . . maybe it was just as well she was chased out. Éponine touched her bandaged shoulder. It ached, but did not appear to be bleeding. She shrugged and stepped out into the street. Her feet were bare.

. . . . . .

Éponine ambled about the _Quai d'Anjou_, slowly eating the baguette slice that she had managed to swipe during her flight from the house. The bread had been on a tray in her room, obviously meant for "the guest" which Joséphine had not believed her to be.

Éponine did not wander far from the house, but instead walked down the steps led from the street to the walkway by the river. There she came across a stone bench and sat for an hour and a half, ruminating on what she should do next.

Her mind wandered easily to Marius. A tear of anguish and frustration soon slid down her cheek. How unfair of God! When she had finally gained Marius, he was snatched away.

"_Mon histoire . . ._" Éponine murmured to the air.

And now she did not know if her love was alive or dead.

The image of Marius' broken body came before her mind's eye once more. She did not yet trust her body to safely return her to Paris proper where she could gather information with the help of her various underworld connections, courtesy of her father.

"_Mademoiselle_ Thénardier!"

Éponine jumped up. It was Joly. The young man had been out of the house all morning, visiting the university for medical supplies and also stopping to see Musichetta.

If Joly had just called her Christian name Éponine might have ignored him, but loudly throwing the name Thénardier about brought on the chance of unwanted attention from nearby law or nearby villains.

"Hush!" Éponine hissed harshly, racing up the steps to the street. Joly took one look at her state of undress and immediately took off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. Éponine was vaguely aware that perhaps her attire was immodest, but she had been dressed in such a fashion for so long she had forgotten what immodesty was. Joly's coat had uncomfortably reminded her.

"This is my fault," Joly said, his tone heavy with apology. "I should have warned Joséphine that my friends were not going to be what she had had in mind."

Éponine's shoulder began to ache and she felt tired. She allowed Joly to lead her back to the house. Joséphine, embarrassed and duly chastised, stayed out of sight and busied herself in the kitchen.

. . . . . .

Enjolras' fever returned with a vengence. Joly and Éponine took turns keeping him cool. Every now and then Joly removed Éponine from the room so as to change Enjolras' dressings and to cleanse and cut away the dead flesh from wounds that threatened to become gangrenous.

A week went by in such a fashion and Joly was beginning to feel the strain. Anatole had been kind enough to also keep watch over Enjolras every now and then, affording Joly some much needed relief in sleep. Also during this time Joly deemed Éponine well enough to assist Joséphine with the household chores—which was something Éponine had insisted on, not wishing to be a burden on anyone. Joséphine was tight-lipped around Éponine but made no objections, thinking secretly to herself that in service this strange guest belonged.

. . . . . .

Enjolras' fever often spiked then lowered as his body fought infection. On the nineteenth of June, fourteen days after the _émeute_, Enjolras' fever broke.

Joly and Éponine were sitting in Enjolras' room eating breakfast at a small table set up by Anatole for Joly's convenience. With an awkward grace Éponine poured coffee into Joly's cup.

"You do that pretty well, _Mademoiselle_ Thénardier." Joly commented with a tired smile.

"Thank you, _Monsieur._ I used to do it better, but I'm out of practice."

Joly tilted his head to the side and gave her a quizzical look. "Out of practice?" Joly did not imagine that someone in Éponine's circumstances had much time or opportunity to master the art of tea service.

Éponine saw the look and added, "My sister, Azelma, and I used to have tea parties all the time when we were kids, when my parents still had their inn."

"Where was this?"

"In Montfermeil."

"Where is your sister now?"

"In the _Prison des Madelonnettes," _Éponine said without batting an eye.

"Oh." Joly's cheeks turned pink. "My sympathies, _Mademoiselle_."

"It's nothing,_ Monsieur_. She's better off there than at home or in the streets."

Joly almost blurted out about the plethora of diseases to be found in prison, but stopped himself in time. "Your hand is healing remarkably well," Joly said instead. "It was a good thing the bullet only took a little from the side of your palm and not straight through the middle . . ."

"When do you think _Monsieur_ Enjolras will wake up?"

"It's hard to say," Joly replied, thankful for the change in subject. "His fever is gone, he's sleeping soundly . . . so, I hope soon."

The pair then grew silent and continued to eat their breakfast.

"How did you meet Musichetta?" Éponine suddenly asked.

Joly's smiled, then paused before answering, a trace of sadness crossing his freckled face. "It was at the _Opéra Le Peletier_. She was a ballet dancer . . . one of many . . . performing in _La Sylphide_ that night. After the show Bossuet introduced her to me, she was his mistress. We ended up kind of 'sharing' her."

"Bossuet?"

"Also known as Légle de Meaux. My flat-mate . . . and my best friend. He fell at the barricades . . ." Joly's voice grew quieter. "His evil Genius had caught up with him at last."

Joly saw the question on Éponine's face and gave her an apologetic smile with a shrug. "He used to call his bad luck or fate his 'evil Genius.'"

A fond memory must have come to Joly's mind then for he suddenly let out a peal of random laughter. But, soon this mirth dissolved into tears. "I beg your pardon," he said quietly and left the room.

Joly had been constantly working to save the lives of two people right out of the barricades, fourteen days straight. There had been hardly any time left to him to grieve and now it came bursting out, like a breached dam.

Éponine, knowing it best to leave Joly alone to work through his anguish, did not move from her chair and quietly ate her breakfast. She hardly tasted a thing.

Éponine idly cast her eye about the room as she ate. Her sights rested on the three books Joly had retrieved from Enjolras' apartment. She rose and picked up the first of the stack.

_The Republic _by Plato.

She glanced at Enjolras' still form and a thought came to her mind. It was a silly thought, but perhaps the inert incendiary would stir at hearing the words of his beloved book.

Éponine settled herself in a chair by the bed and opened the tome . . .

. . . . . .

For an hour Éponine read.

"'This, then, seems likely to be the fairest of States, being an embroidered robe, which is spangled with every sort of flower. And just as women and children think a variety of colors to be of all things most charming, so there are many men to whom this State, which is spangled with the manners and characters of mankind—'"

Suddenly, a male's voice huskily chimed in.

"'—Will appear to be the fairest of States.'"

Éponine looked to Enjolras. His eyes were open and he was staring at her.

"_Bonjour, monsieur_," Éponine said simply.

. . . . . .

A/N: "Mon histoire" ("My Story") is the original French title of the song "On My Own".

**On a side note that does this concern this chapter I just learned that "the oldest [dog] pound in existence in the United States can be found in Glocester, Rhode Island. Built in 1748, the stone pound is recognized by the National Historic Register." I don't know what they did in France, so I took some liberties with that.**

**The little aside about the dog is actually what happened with my dog, which we adopted from a shelter. He would sit on the sofa or the soft pallet we got him, but he kept returning to the marble slab in front of the fireplace and lay down there. He was so used to the hard concrete floor of the shelter he felt most at ease there. But, now, almost a year later, he lazes comfortably on the couch. :)**


	12. Into the Fog

_A/N: Thanks to Nina for helping me with this little revision._

**Into the Fog**

With the exception of the brief flicker of recognition, Enjolras' gaze was dull. The bright blue was now a cloudy gray. Éponine shuddered involuntarily: It was like looking into the eyes of a dead man. The passion, the fire . . . all was quenched.

_How are you feeling? Are you in pain? Should I fetch something for you?_ Of all the things Éponine had wanted to say next she instead blurted out, "What happened to Marius?"

Éponine was never one for tact.

Enjolras silently stared at the ceiling.

Éponine forced down the frenzy of fear growing inside her. Fourteen long days she had waited for this man to wake up and tell her what had become of her beloved Marius and now he would not say a word! The pity Éponine had been feeling for him was thrown to the back of her mind. She grasped the edge of the counterpane to keep herself from grabbing his shirt collar.

"Please . . . _Monsieur_," she whispered. She could feel desperate tears building behind her eyes.

Enjolras did not seem to hear her and continued his perusal of the plaster.

"_Monsieur_ . . ." Éponine was now clutching the bedding with her good hand. "If you know something . . ."

Silence.

Éponine's thin fingers crept up the quilt. "I'm begging of you, monsieur . . ." Before she knew it she was grasping him by his shirtfront. Enjolras' gray gaze, inches away now, at last turned on her; out of his dry lips came a voice, both soft and rough from disuse, saying words she did not want to hear:

"He's probably dead . . . like the rest."

Éponine stumbled back. She did not hear anything other than the words _probably_ and _dead_. She clung to _probably_.

"I'll go get _Monsieur_ Joly . . ." With that she fled the room.

Enjolras stared at the spot Éponine just vacated. Memories of the barricade slowly began to crowd his mind, causing him to break into a cold sweat. The crushing weight of responsibility and failure had settled once more on his conscience.

" . . . Like I should be."

. . . . . .

Joly took the steps two at a time. When Éponine came to him with the news, his feet could not get him there fast enough. But, now as he approached the door he hesitated. He was suddenly uncertain—a little afraid. What would Enjolras' emotional state be on awakening?

Joly turned the brass knob and stepped into the room. One look at Enjolras told him that his fears were well placed. Enjolras was there but his soul seemed to have fled, leaving behind and empty shell. Enjolras' fixed his hollow gaze on the young man. Joly shuddered just as Éponine had before.

"I'm so glad to see you awake!" Joly suddenly cried forcing a smile as he swiftly went to Enjolras' side. He pulled his friend into a sitting up position then proceeded to perform a general exam. As Joly began to unravel the bandages around Enjolras' shoulder and torso, Enjolras suddenly grabbed his hand, arresting his movement. For one who had been on the threshold of death not too long ago his grip was terribly strong.

"Forgive me . . ." Enjolras whispered, pinning Joly with a tortured look, his pale eyes glassy.

Joly did not need to ask what for. He put his free hand on the other man's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"There is nothing to forgive," he said firmly, hoping that would end the matter. He really did not want to talk about any of it. For, among other reasons, a small, petty, grieving part of him did blame Enjolras.

Enjolras had been the one to collect them and focus their various rays of light into a single beam that set Paris aflame for a day and a half. The amis had all followed Enjolras of their own free will. Even if Enjolras had not founded the amis de l'abaisse and organized the émeute, with the state Paris was in someone else most assuredly would have. Theirs had not been the only barricade that night.

Joly's reply did not satisfy Enjolras. Nevertheless, he let go of Joly's hand and said nothing more. The medical student flexed his aching fingers and continued the examination.

A sepulchral silence descended on the room. Joly tried to relieve it with the anecdote of how he had snuck him and Éponine out of Paris proper and to the _île Saint-Louis_. He also told him how his servant had chased Éponine out of the house. Joly laughed as he finished the tale. It echoed hollowly in the room. Enjolras did not make eye contact with him again. The former leader of the amis seemed miles away, staring into space. Joly was beginning to fear for his friend's mind.

"I have an errand to run," Joly said, rising and backing away towards the door. He was not able to keep out the tinge of worry in his voice and was wringing his hands behind his back. "If you need anything, just yank on the bell-pull. Joséphine, Anatole or Éponine should come." With that, he grabbed his medical kit and left.

Enjolras could feel the condemnation in his friend's quick dismissal of his plea for forgivness. A tear slipped down Enjolras' marble face, followed by another. He did not have the will to stop them now.

Éponine was in her room putting what little she owned into a valise: the green day dress. She was presently wearing another one of faded lavender that Joly's sister, Elise, had left behind. Joly insisted, saying that she would not miss it. Yes, tonight Éponine would leave. She would return to the mainland and look for Marius.

A knock sounded.

"Yes?"

"I'm going out for a bit," Joly's voice came, muffled by the door. "I advise you to leave Enjolras alone for now, unless you think he may do himself harm."

"I understand."

Five mintues after Joly left a low keening sound came to Éponine's ears. She realized the sound was coming through the wall she shared with Enjolras. The cries soon escalated into heart-wrenching sobs and screams so terrible they seemed to emanate from the ninth circle of Hell itself.

Éponine clutched the fabric of her bodice and trembled.

In all her years of life in the slums she had heard every possible sound of distress, heartbreak and anguish—even contributed to it with cries of her own. In short, Éponine was desensitized to it, and yet . . . Enjolras's suffering reached her still.

Éponine clapped her hands over her ears and ran to the lowest part of the house, the kitchens, completely forgetting Joly's instructions.

. . . . . .

A half an hour later it was quiet. Joséphine ascended the stairs to the top floors, supper tray in hand. Éponine followed behind her.

When they reached the landing Joséphine hesitated, staring warily at Enjolras' door.

"Do you think it's safe?"

Éponine sighed and grabbed the tray. Joséphine was more than willing to relinquish the task and even opened the door for her.

Enjolras had fallen asleep at last, exhausted by his grief. Even though clearly in repose, his face appeared troubled. Traces of despair were still on his cheeks and his hands were clutching the bedclothes.

He was in the midst of a dream . . .

_Inside the _Sorbonne_ Enjolras had just settled himself into his normal seat by the window. From there he could just make out the _Jardin du Luxembourg_. Professor Blondeau was calling the roll._

_"LeBlanc?"_

_"Present."_

_"Blanchet?"_

_"Present."_

_"Bahorel?"_

_Silence._

_A stab of pain went through Enjolras._

_"Jean Bahorel?" Professor Blondeau cast an eager glance about the room, the tell-tale glint in his eyes. The man took perverse pleasure in striking students from the roll._

_"Jean-Michel Bahorel? No? Ah, well . . ." The middle-aged, balding man grinned as he dipped his pen in the inkwell and gleefully struck through Bahorel's name. "A loss of sixty francs for monsieur Bahorel!" He giggled to himself._

_"Combeferre?"_

_Silence._

_Enjolras shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He was tempted to leave._

_"Combeferre?" Blondeau's eyes lit up again. Today was a great day. "Louis-Pierre Combeferre? Well, then . . ." Blondeau slowly drew the black line across Combeferre's name, his smile growing with it. With a satisfied sigh he looked at the roll a moment longer before moving on._

_"Enjolras?"_

_Enjolras opened his mouth to say "present" but no sound came out._

_"Enjolras?"_

_Blondeau could not believe his luck. Three in one day so far; God was at last smiling on him. He grasped his pen._

_"Grégorie Enjolras?"_

_Blondeau maliciously dragged his pen across the sheet._

Present! Present! Present! Damnation, why do you not hear me? I'm here!

. . . . . .

Éponine set the tray down on the nearby side table. She was about to leave when, for some strange reason, she felt compelled to adjust his blanket. She gently pulled the coverlet out of his grip and tucked it around him, hoping to make him more comfortable. Apparently it worked. Enjolras gave a sigh and his body relaxed.

"I'm here . . ." he breathed.

Éponine tilted her head and regarded him quizzically.

"Of course you're here . . . where else would you be?"

Then she realized he was dreaming.

_He's strange even when he's asleep._

"Éponine! Come help me polish the silver," Joséphine called from the bottom of the stairs.

"Coming."

She spared Enjolras one last glance then left the room.

. . . . . .

The chimes of _Notre Dame_ pealed midnight. The damp street of the _Quai d'Anjou_ was deserted except for a young woman carrying a valise, walking in the direction of the _Pont Marie_.

The fog rising from the river muffled the heavy clunking sound of her boots. As she crossed the _Pont Marie_ the silhouette of another figure, a tall man, began to take shape in the fog. Whoever it was, was leaning dangerously close over the edge of the stone railing.

Éponine slowly moved closer. The man was leaning further over now.

She recognized him.

"_Monsieur_ Enjolras, don't you dare!"

. . . . . .

Enjolras stared into the black waters of the Seine, the swirling current an apt reflection of his thoughts and feelings. He leaned heavily on the rail, his strength spent in the short journey from his room, down the stairs, out the door and to the bridge. Beads of perspiration lined his forehead, swiftly chilled by the cool damp air. He shivered with cold and anxiety.

_What would they all be doing now if it were not for me?_

_Combeferre would be with his mistress . . . Courfeyrac would be prying Marius for more stories of his angel . . . Bossuet would be at his father's house . . . Grantaire would be drinking himself into a stupor, playing dice in some gaming den . . . Feuilly . . . Bahorel . . . Prouvaire . . . My brothers would all be alive . . . what's the use of dying for a cause if it does not change anything? It would have been better to remain alive to carry on the work and now there are seven less champions of justice in the world . . . and for what?_

The specter of inadequacy loomed behind him in the dark, weighing heavily on him. As if in a trance, he unconsciously leaned closer to the water. In the deceptive dark, he fancied he began to see faces on the surface of the river: the faces of his friends, staring up at him, their expressions accusatory.

"Please, do not look at me like that . . . forgive me . . . I thought . . . please, don't." The faces did not disappear. He would make them disappear. He had to.

Enjolras felt his balance begin to waver, but he no longer cared . . .

. . . . . .

Éponine grabbed the back of his coat and pulled him back from the railing. She planted her feet firmly in the ground and caught him as he stumbled. Then she wrapped her arms around his middle, at first to steady him, then to restrain him. In her convalescence Éponine had regained her former strength from the streets and Enjolras had lost most of his in his sickness.

"You should not be out here, _Mademoiselle_," he said brusquely, but made no effort to extricate himself from her embrace. Éponine could feel the rumble of his deep voice on her cheek, which was pressed against his back.

"I could say the same thing to you."

Enjolras was silent a moment. He looked down at the thin arms encircling his waist and the small hands that were attached to them, particularly the one swathed in bandages.

"You were right."

"About what?"

"The people abandoned us, _Mademoiselle_. I thought that they were ready to stand behind us . . . that their freedom now mattered more to them than their personal futures . . . so sure that this was the way to bring about change . . . I should have died with them . . . What do you think, _Mademoiselle_ should I drown myself or seek out a national guard to shoot me?"

"Neither, _Monsieur_."

"You considered it once." Enjolras felt Éponine's body tense with surprise.

"How did you—? Oh, never mind that, monsieur! Back to the matter at hand: I may not be a rich and clever student of the Sorbonne like you but this I do know: every man at that barricade was there of their own free will and knew exactly what they were getting into! You did not put a pistol to their heads and command them to rip up the pavement." Éponine paused and looked up at Enjolras. His head was turned slightly to the side. He was listening.

Encouraged and unnerved at the same time Éponine continued: "They believed in a free France as much as you, _Monsieur_. And they all believed that building barricades was the way to bring it about; you were not alone in the idea either, _Monsieur_, you know that. As to your still living . . . if there is a God . . . perhaps . . . maybe . . . He still has work for you to do."

Enjolras stood very still, seemingly processing what she had just said. Suddenly, he turned in Éponine's arms and gazed at her with a look of quiet wonder. His eyes were still sad but the terrible deadness was gone.

"Thank you, Éponine," he said quietly. Suddenly, Enjolras put a hand to his forehead, then, swaying slightly, he leaned down and rested his head on her small shoulder, his blonde curls tumbling against her cheek. "I'm afraid," he sighed, "you will have to help me back to the house."

Éponine nodded and, with Enjolras leaning on her, they slowly made their return to the townhouse.

Éponine's investigative trip into Paris was—without question—indefinitely postponed.


	13. A Letter of Her Own

**A Letter of Her Own**

After the incident on the _Pont Marie_, Enjolras seemed to be better—still on the sad side—but better. He looked less pale and began to eat of his own accord. Enjolras had been a machine of a man, fueled by revolution. Since the revolution failed, the machine, having lost its purpose, had begun to fall into disrepair. But, now he was regaining strength and the will to look for that purpose again.

Éponine contemplated sneaking out to look for Marius many times over the following week, but she was afraid that if she left . . . if Enjolras fell into despair again and once more attempted something foolish . . . would anyone be there to stop him? What would have happened if she had not been there that night? Now that Enjolras was on the mend, Joly (blissfully unaware of the suicide attempt) was in and out of the townhouse all the time, assisting professors teaching summer classes, wooing Musichetta, and making charitable house calls to those who could not afford a professional physician's care.

Joséphine and Anatole could hardly be bothered with the task of watchman, they were fully occupied with keeping the small household running and minding their own business. The two servants were beginning to have a terrible inkling of where Enjolras had come from and so interacted with him as little as possible—outside of their duties, of course—just in case one day the police should come poking about, at least _their_ consciences would be clean.

That left the general care up to Éponine. Enjolras was able to move about quite well on his own now, but needed watching on the stairs.

Éponine began her mornings eating breakfast with Joly and Enjolras in his room. She then helped Joséphine about the house. Despite Joséphine foisting most of the work upon her, she enjoyed herself. Which was strange.

It brought back to her mind the Lark. Despite dropping the bulk of the duties around the inn on little Cosette, the Thénardiess had been an adept housekeeper and had taught Éponine many tricks of the trade (emphasis on tricks). Joséphine was impressed, despite the cutting-corner practices, which she was then obliged to un-teach.

Éponine's evenings were spent either reading to Enjolras (he insisted on this to help improve her reading skills) or walking with him up and down the quay to strengthen his limbs. They only walked in the evenings to further ensure Enjolras' anonymity. They often walked in silence, each occupied by his or her own thoughts . . . and yet, still aware of and thankful for the other's presence.

On one such of these walks Joly came running up to them from the direction of Paris proper, an excited smile lighting up his face. Once he reached them, he doubled over to catch his breath.

"Pontmercy is alive!" He gasped out.

Éponine gave a whoop of joy then burst into tears. She wrapped Joly in a grateful embrace while Enjolras looked on, a hesitant happiness on his face.

Once Éponine released him Joly began his tale:

"I was strolling through the _Jardin du Luxembourg_ with Musichetta when we were passed by two ladies. The older of the two said something like, 'Marius must suffer no excitement as he begins his convalescence.' I engaged them in conversation, explaining I was a friend of Marius'. The woman eyed me with some suspicion but then—I suppose—she decided I looked respectable enough. Apparently, the woman is his aunt, a Mademoiselle Gillenormand. Marius is at his grandfather's house on the_ Rue des Filles du Calvaire_. Mlle. Gillenormand said Marius arrived the night the barricade fell, delivered to their door, half-dead, by a mysterious ragged man and an inspector."

Enjolras and Éponine listened to this brief tale with wonder. Enjolras' brain worked furiously, trying to remember the events of that night and figure the identities of the Marius' saviors. The only inspector he remembered from that night was Javert, but the old man had executed him . . . had he not? And then there was the matter of the old man himself and . . . Enjolras' head began to ache.

"I must see him!" Éponine cried and began walking swiftly towards the Pont Marie.

"Wait." Enjolras put a hand on her shoulder, stopping her short.

Éponine turned to him with a look of surprise. "What is it?"

Joly looked over Éponine's head and gave his friend a questioning look, but, sure that Enjolras had good reason, assisted him.

"Enjolras is right. Marius must not have any excitement, remember? He thinks you are dead. If you suddenly appear . . ."

Éponine nodded gravely. "Yes, I see . . . but, please, I must contact him somehow!"

"Write him a letter," Enjolras said.

"Yes!" Joly chimed in, "a letter is less exciting!"

"I suppose . . . if _you_ think it best, monsieur Joly. I wouldn't want to cause Marius any more pain."

Éponine did not see Enjolras wince, but Joly did.

_What's going on?_ He mouthed to Enjolras as Éponine walked swiftly back to the townhouse, leaving them behind.

Enjolras discreetly held up a hand, motioning for him to wait until Éponine rounded the corner and disappeared from view. Joly turned to his friend expectantly.

"Well, then?"

Enjolras sighed and proceeded to tell Joly all about Marius' "confession" to what he thought was a dying Éponine.

The blood seeped from Joly's cheeks, causing his thousands of orange freckles to stand out all the more. "Oh, good God . . ."

"Indeed."

Enjolras began to pace the pavement; Joly soon joined him.

"Should we interfere?"

"Let Pontmercy get the letter. Then it will be up to him. He thought he was being kind, and if Éponine _had_ died I would have agreed. But, she did not. And now Marius will have to answer for his words."

"But . . . Éponine . . . it may kill her."

Enjolras sighed and a grieved look crossed his marble façade.

"That's up to her."

Éponine hummed happily to herself as she penned her letter. She grimaced at her childish scrawl but continued undeterred. Perhaps Marius could teach her better penmanship. The thought of his hand enveloping hers as he guided her pen made her blush to the tips of her ears. She pressed a cool hand to her warm cheeks and unwittingly smeared ink on her face. Shaking her head to clear the daydream, she turned back to the task at hand.

_11 Quai d'Anjou,_

_Île Saint-Louis_

_June 29th, 1832_

_Deerest Marius,_

_I hop this leter dusn't eksit you to much . . ._

**A/N: In the book Thénardier's spelling is poor, so I figured his daughter's would be atrocious.**


	14. A Little Fall of Ink

**A Little Fall of Ink**

The grandfather clock in the hall struck midnight. Enjolras put down _the Republic_ and slowly rose from his chair in the parlor. He ambled over to the study where Éponine had ensconced herself to write her letter. Éponine was still hunched over the desk. Scattered around her were several sheets of crumpled paper, discarded drafts of her precious missive; even as he watched Éponine crumpled another and tossed it over her shoulder with a frustrated growl.

"You should go to bed, _Mademoiselle_."

Éponine started violently, jerking the pen and thus creating a large inkblot in the middle of the page.

"_Merde_!"

Crumple. Toss.

Éponine looked up sharply and was prepared to berate Enjolras, but he had left.

Enjolras made his way to the stairs. The pain in his leg was not as sharp as it used to be and he no longer felt as if he were taking his life in his own hands when he ascended the stairs. His glanced at his bandaged right hand as it grasped the banister. He had not attempted to write anything since the barricades fell, but _Le Moniteur's_ contemptuous account of the fifth and sixth of June urged him to take up his pen for _Le National_ again. He prayed his penmanship had not suffered from the injury.

. . . . . .

Ten minutes later a gentle but insistent knock came on his door. Enjolras was down to his shirtsleeves and had been in the process of untying his cravat. He opened the door a quarter of the way.

Éponine stood before him, a sleepy smile gracing her face.

"I have finished my letter!" She held out the folded parchment with pride. Ink was smeared on her nose and cheeks. If Enjolras had been a normal man, he would have laughed at the sight; but he was not, so he did not. Instead, a corner of his mouth twitched.

"Good."

"You know . . . I've never written a letter before—not a real, proper letter anyway . . ."

Enjolras' twitch widened to an actual smile at her satisfied expression. Éponine sighed happily and turned toward her room.

"_Mademoiselle_ Éponine."

"Yes?"

"There is ink on your face." Enjolras made a vague gesture around his own nose and cheeks.

Éponine let out a short burst of laughter. "Well, it's a good thing Marius isn't here to see me. What a fright I must look!"

Enjolras fished in his sleeve for his handkerchief. But, Éponine, ignorant of his gentlemanly intent, licked her fingers and vigorously wiped her cheeks.

Enjolras grimaced.

"All clean?" She asked when she had finished.

_Not by any standard._

"Yes."

_It is a good thing Joly did not see that._

"Goodnight, _Mademoiselle_."

"Please, before you go, _Monsieur_, would you read over my letter; tell me if I should make any changes?"

Enjolras would rather be dragged across a bed of nails . . .

He met Éponine's hopeful gaze and opened his mouth to answer in the negative . . .

"Of course."

_What?_

"A thousand thanks, _Monsieur_!" The gamine thrust the letter in his hands and practically skipped to her room.

Before his head hit the pillow Enjolras briefly wondered why Éponine asked him, instead of Joly.

. . . . . .

After breakfast Enjolras presented Éponine with a letter littered with strike-throughs and numerous annotations, sticking out in the margins like thorns.

Enjolras almost felt guilty when her face fell. Almost.

"You asked me."

Éponine sighed. "I know."

"Never ask me again."

That afternoon the letter was sent.


	15. Night Closing In

A/N: Thanks again to Nina and all the rest of my fabulous reviewers!

. . . . . .

**Night Closing In**

For Éponine, the daylight hours of the week following the sending of her letter were spent in the parlor. After finishing the chores she would sit in a chair by the window with either mending or knitting in her lap, her eyes on the street; waiting.

. . . . . .

_July 13th, 1832_

The heat of a waxing July brought with it its summer storms, giving the inhabitants of France a brief respite from the blazing sun.

Around noon the thunder of a one such passing storm rolled and reverberated along the row of townhouses lining the _Quai d'Anjou_. In the parlor of one of these townhouses a merry little fire was crackling, to drive away the damp. Enjolras and Joly were both in this parlor—the former bent over a desk, writing—the latter sitting in a chair by the fire, taking his own pulse.

Enjolras' gaze often wandered out the window to the _Pont Marie_ and he wondered . . . what would have happened if Éponine had not been there? Would he have jumped?

He was not sure. Enjolras thought he had put his despair behind him, but now as he stared at the page in front of him—on which he had only managed to pen a few lines before scratching them out—he felt it closing in once more.

The words would not come.

Not like before.

Frustrated, Enjolras buried his fingers in his blond locks.

How could he carry on the work of _Les Amis de l'Abaissé_ when his most potent talent had abandoned him?

The demon of ineptitude sat solidly on Enjolras' shoulder, taunting him. The glimmer of hope he thought he had begun to see was snuffed out and before him there was nothing but a vast midnight.

Enjolras put down his pen and rubbed his temples in an effort to ward off the headache beginning to form.

"I'm going to the apothecary's," Joly suddenly announced, rising to his feet. "Do you need anything?"

Enjolras did not turn around, but attempted to continue writing.

"No."

Joly looked at his friend's back, a worried expression clouding his face. He lingered there for a moment longer in indecision, chewing his bottom lip; but at last he did leave on his errand.

All was silent except for the ticking of the clock on the mantle, the crackling of the fire and the thunder's faint rumble.

"Why doesn't he write?!" Éponine suddenly burst into the room with this exclamation, causing Enjolras to jump and almost upset the inkwell.

"It's been fourteen days!" With a frustrated sigh Éponine sat heavily down in the chair Joly had recently vacated and, picking up his discarded newspaper, began to read. Ever since Éponine arrived at Joly's townhouse she reveled in the luxury of being able to read from a fresh newspaper, to be informed of current events and learn something about the world at large.

Éponine glanced up at Enjolras, studying his hunched over figure at the desk. He physically seemed to be doing much better, but spiritually, he was still foundering. She watched him fiddle with the gold chain he wore around his neck. She had asked him about it at breakfast the day she sent the letter. It had belonged to his father as well. She saw the crucifix pass through his nervous fingers, a Jerusalem cross.

In truth, the loss of eloquence had not been the only thing fraying Enjolras' nerves; watching Éponine sit and pace in front of the windows for the past fourteen days irritated him. His annoyance at Marius' silence mounted with each passing day until it became anger.

_Blasted Bonapartist . . . _

Suddenly Éponine let out a piercing shout.

This time Enjolras' shock did knock over the inkwell. He leapt to his feet to avoid the black stream that ran down the desk and onto the floor, then quickly righted the bottle.

Éponine stood in the middle of the room holding the newspaper out before her as if it were a venomous snake.

"What . . . what is this?"

Enjolras glanced at the newspaper. He forced his voice to remain casual. "It's an engagement announcement. I should think that was obvious."

"But . . . I don't understand . . . No. There is some mistake. Perhaps he's still unconscious after all. . . that must be why he didn't write! They probably thought they were following Marius' wishes . . . the Lark and that old man . . . He didn't have the chance to tell her that he was no longer in love with her! Oh! This is driving me to distraction! I may really just go over there and talk to him myself, see if I don't! Why—"

"_Enough!_"

Éponine's distressed chatter ceased immediately. Her rant had touched on Enjolras' last raw nerve, like a hot poker setting off a fuse. He whipped around and the tongue he had thought lost suddenly came back in the worst way.

"The man does not write because he is a coward!"

Éponine's initial surprise at Enjolras' words soon dissolved into indignation. She crossed the room with purposeful strides and drew herself to her full height before him.

"What do you mean? How _dare _you say such a thing about my Marius!"

"You have been deceived. The man does not love you."

Éponine was shocked into silence for a moment but soon opened her mouth to make another protest. Enjolras cut her off:

"He only said those things because he thought you were on the brink of death and wanted your last moments to be happy."

"No . . .You're lying!"

The gamine clapped her hands over her ears and spun away from him; but Enjolras was unrelenting, his voice piercing

"He told me himself at the barricades!"

"Stop it . . ."

"And even if he did love you, marriage would be out of the question. The man is of the bourgeois and a baron; he will marry that other woman of his class, who has means. The best you could hope for would be to become his mistress—"

Éponine whipped around and struck Enjolras across the face so hard his head turned to one side. But as quickly as she slapped him Éponine recoiled and shielded herself.

Shame smote Enjolras at the sight of Éponine holding arms that trembled over her face. Many times he had cowed flirtatious _grisettes_ with a searing look, but never had his tongue escaped his control like this and done so much uncalled for damage. Her reflexive action spoke volumes of the kind of life she led. Another pang of guilt swept through him.

"I would _never_ hit you, mademoiselle."

Éponine lowered her arms slightly to warily peer at him. He could now see the tears coursing down her cheeks and onto the floor. A plethora of emotions swept her face: confusion, surprise, wonder, then finally resolution. She turned around and marched out of the house.

Enjolras stood rooted to the parlor floor. Now that his brain had caught up with his rogue tongue, he processed all that had just happened. He felt sick.

Joly stepped in the parlor. "I just passed Éponine on the street. Where is she going?"

"To see him," Enjolras said quietly, staring at the dark, wet spots on the rug.

Joly almost dropped his purchases as he made to go after her, but Enjolras grabbed his shoulder and shook his head.

"Let her go. She needs to do this on her own. Besides . . . it's none of our business."

Joly looked ready to protest, but closed his mouth and began to fret his bottom lip.

"I'll . . . I'll just get these to the stillroom then . . ." Joly murmured, sweeping past Enjolras and heading down to the kitchen.

When Joly returned he found Enjolras pacing in front of the windows. He observed him pace for almost a half a hour. Finally, Enjolras stopped and moved to the front door.

Joly followed behind him with a sly smirk. "What was that about 'it's none of our business'?"

"I made a mistake."

Joly almost tripped over his own feet. Did Grégorie Enjolras just admit to making a mistake? The man had never made such an admission as long as Joly had known him, and for the simple reason he had not needed to.

"I have always been so concerned with the welfare of the collective, I neglected the individual."

Joly looked at his friend with quiet wonder as he struggled to match his long strides.

Who was this man, really? To Joly he had been his leader first, friend second (and not a close one, at that). He was a figure of the revolution, with a devotion to the cause to be admired at and modeled after. But, that was clearly in the past and Joly did not know what to do with the present Enjolras.

For the thousandth time since _that day_ he wished Combeferre was with them.


	16. Tethers

**A/N: Sorry this update took so long! My laptop, on which I do all my fanfics, has sort of crashed. The display has flickered out. . . so to the desktop I go. I had lots of fun looking up the walking directions from Île Saint-Louis to No. 6 Rue de Filles du Calvaire (it does exist, there's even a photo of it. Pretty bourgeois. On another note, Basque, M. Gillenormand's valet, is the one who opens the door when Jean Valjean returns Marius to his grandfather. So . . . does Basque pull double-duty as butler and valet? And FYI: "Alouette" means "Lark."**

**. . . . . .**

**Tethers**

In one of the many offices of the _Hôtel des Premiers Présidents du Parlement, _the headquarters of the Parisian police force_,_ sat an Inspector Martin, sitting comfortably in a hard chair. He was studying Inspector Javert's notes of his service in Paris, particularly those concerning time behind the barricades. The thorough man had managed to make a list of names of all the principle insurrectionists. Next to the list of names there were check marks made by other officers who had visited the morgue and had identified the men. All were dead and accounted for . . .

All except three:

M. Pontmercy

M. Joly

M. Enjolras

A double underscore was marked beneath the last name. Inspector Martin decided he would focus his first attentions on him.

. . . . . .

"Who may I ask is calling on _le Baron_?" Basque, M. Gillernormand's valet and butler, asked the _grisette_ standing on the threshold.

"I . . . _Mademoiselle_ Jondrette."

"If you would be so good as to wait in the drawing room, I will inquire after _le Baron_. Follow me, please."

Basque led Éponine into an upstairs sitting room and deposited her with another "wait here."

Éponine's jaw dropped as looked around at the furnishings, which boasted all the exaggerated opulence of the previous century, the golden age of the Bourbons: Bright yellow wallpaper adorned the room, Corinthian columns flanked a large fireplace, the ceiling was decorated with a mural of clouds and cherubs. None of it was to Éponine's taste, but impressive, nonetheless.

"Oh! Good afternoon—or is it good evening already? Time passes by so swiftly when one is happy."

The pleasant voice startled Éponine who now noticed the figure, rising from a gilded settee. It was Cosette.

The air of gloriously contented domesticity hung about her like a halo and grated against Éponine's nerves. She bit her lip to fight back the bitterness that rose to her lips and managed an awkward curtsy.

"_Mademoiselle_ Fauchelevent."

"Oh, dear! How embarrassing! You know my name but I do not have the pleasure of knowing yours, mademoiselle . . ."

"Jondrette."

"_Mademoiselle_ Jondrette, won't you sit down?"

"No."

Cosette's good-natured smile faltered slightly at the abrupt negative, but quickly rallied. Éponine cast a narrow look at the beautiful young woman. Imagine her, offering a seat to her as if she were already lady of the house! The glare she had given Cosette sent the poor girl back to her seat. From her perch she took a moment to study Éponine before returning to the embroidery she had been working on before the interruption. She found Éponine's face familiar, but could not place exactly where she had seen her before.

"Is _Monsieur_ Marius awake?"

"He just fell asleep when I left him."

"He has been awake then?"

"Oh, yes."

"Did he receive any letters?"

Cosette was by Marius' side throughout most of the day, every day, ever the news of his survival reached her and he regained consciousness.

"Marius does not receive letters. Sadly, the whole of his acquaintance is either dead or unaware that he is not. Yet . . . he did receive one two weeks ago . . . I remember now . . . It was posted from the Île Saint-Louis, I know because I handed it to him myself. It must have been terribly bad news of some sort. His face lit up when he first opened the letter, as if he had received the happiest of news, but then he swiftly turned quite pale, so pale I thought he might faint. I asked him what the matter was but he would not answer. He then handed me the letter, insisting quite strongly that I not look at it but throw into the fire at once. I did as he asked. It was all very odd."

Éponine at last sat down, her legs threatening to give way beneath her. She was beginning to realize the reality that Enjolras presented her with.

Cosette leapt to her feet and hovered over Éponine with an anxious expression and touched a small white hand to Éponine's olive colored forehead. "Mademoiselle, are you ill? You are quite pale!"

"Don't touch me!"

Cosette quickly withdrew her hand. "_Mademoiselle_, what have I done to offend you?"

Éponine gazed up at Cosette's worried face, her pitying expression did not move her, but only served to fuel her spite. Her cruel side, inherited from her parents and sharpened by years on the street, lashed out.

"Do you really not recognize me, _Alouette_?"

Cosette stiffened and her eyes went as wide as saucers.

"What did you call me?" she whispered.

"My name is not Jondrette. It's Éponine Thénardier."

Cosette fled back to the settee with all the fluster of a frightened dove.

"Thénardier . . ."

Ever since Jean Valjean rescued Cosette from Montfermeil, her eight year old mind, as it was caught up in the love and care Valjean lavished upon her, immediately began the work of blocking out all the sufferings she had known in Montfermeil. Jean Valjean closed the door on those memories and they faded like a nightmare of winter waking to glorious summer.

But, now the door was forced open and the winter descended again. The memories of all the blows of the Thénardiess, the childish cruelty of Éponine and Azelma, the cold, harrowing trips to the well in the wood, all came rushing back. Cosette's fingers sunk into the arm of the settee as she relived every moment.

"Remember how we used to sing to you, Cosette?"

_"Alouette, gentille Alouette_

_Alouette je te plumerai . . ."_

Cosette clapped her hands over her ears.

"No! Stop it, please!"

Éponine's conscience screamed at her to stop, for pity's sake, but her disappointed heart urged her on.

"_Je te plumerai la tête_

_Je te plumerai la tête_

_Et la tête, et la tête_

_Alouette, Alouette . . ."_

Cosette shrank further back into the arm of the settee, pulling her knees up to her chest as she would when she was a little girl. She was back in the Sergeant of Waterloo huddled in her corner under the stairs.

Suddenly, the door to the parlor swung open and in stumbled Marius, leaning heavily on a cane, a shawl wrapped around his once strong shoulders. He resembled an old, tired veteran. He ran to Cosette, coming between her and Éponine.

"Stop it, 'Ponine!"

Éponine fell silent, stumbling back as if struck.

Cosette wrapped trembling arms around her fiance's neck.

"_Ma chérie_, are you alright?"

Cosette took a deep, shuddering breath. Marius' presence anchored her in the present, recalling her from the darkness of the past. All was well again.

"Yes, my love," she whispered with a grateful look. "But you should attend to this young woman who has come to speak with you."

Marius slowly turned to face Éponine. His handsome visage was slightly marred by a few scratches and a whitening scar near the top of his forehead that disappeared into his dark locks. His eyes were filled with sadness.

Éponine's face lost all fierceness and softened as she looked at Marius.

"But . . . you love me . . . I . . . I saved your life . . . " she choked.

Marius' eyebrows drew together in confusion, folding the flesh around the scar. Éponine raised her left hand and pulled at her wide square-necked collar, stay strap and shift to reveal the bandaged area around her shoulder.

Marius' thought back to the barricade. When he was standing by the powder keg, waiting for Éponine. The flash of light, the report of the gun.

Tears glistened in Marius' eyes and his expression was one of inexpressible remorse. With a clearly painful effort he knelt at the _gamine's_ feet.

"I am so sorry, Éponine. Please, forgive me."

Those few words stuck a dagger into the crack of her breaking heart and, with a deft twist, shattered it completely.

"So . . . it _was_ a lie . . ."

"I thought you were dying, I . . ."

"I know," Éponine said softly, but in the next sentence her voice took on a bitter edge "I had it explained to me already. Get up, _Monsieur_."

Marius got unsteadily to his feet with Cosette's assistance. Éponine observed them with a cold eye.

"Did you ever wonder how I knew about Cosette in the first place, _Monsieur_?"

Cosette's golden head whipped up and gazed with new alarm at Éponine. Marius just looked vaguely confused at the change of subject.

"She and I grew up together in a little commune called Montfermeil in Paris. My mother and father, who ran the inn there, raised her. Her mother . . ."

Cosette gripped Marius' arm and, in spite of everything, she leaned forward, fear and eagerness playing on her pretty features. Valjean had been so close-mouthed about her mother she was anxious to hear whatever Éponine had to say.

"Her mother, Fantine, was a penniless whore who could not afford to have a brat around and so gave her to us." Or so Éponine's parents used to say.

Cosette let out a pitiful cry and fainted in Marius' arms. In his weakness he stumbled back on to the settee, clutching his fiancée to his breast. Slowly his gaze met Éponine's, his expression, which was at first bewildered, became hard and cold, reflecting also the pain of betrayal, and the thing Éponine had often seen in her nightmares:

Disgust.

Despite all this, she continued. She had nothing left to lose now. Her last tether had snapped.

"So you see, your precious Cosette, underneath all her rich clothes, beautiful hair and bourgeois airs, _is no different than me_!"

"Get out," hissed Marius, his voice shaking with indignation and hurt.

Éponine quietly left the room. She had nothing more to say. The damage was done.


	17. Seul dans la nuit

**A/N: So, on the internet I stumbled across the original French text of Les Misérables and it's offical: Éponine.**

**Yay.**

**Anyway, originally, the following scene was going to take place on the same bridge, Pont au Change, where Javert jumped but that's practically in front of the Palais de Justice and I could not imagine the scene in this chapter and the next unfolding, unobstructed, right there. . . so . . . the locale changed to the Bassin de l'Arsenal/Port de l'Arsenal, around eighteen mintues walk from No. 6 Rue des Filles du Calvaire. I also made a slight addtion/revision since I found out that the underground tunnel of the Saint-Martin Canal which feeds the Bassin has a towpath just like a regular canal.**

**. . . . . .**

**_Seul dans la nuit je crie pour personne_**

**_(Alone in the Night I Cry for Someone)_**

Éponine propelled herself down the _Boulevard des Filles du Calvaire_ and took a sharp turn onto the _Boulevard Beaumarchais_. She walked swiftly with little thought as to where she was going, except away. She passed through the vast _Place de la Bastille_, not even sparing a passing glance at the crumbling elephant, a monument she normally enjoyed contemplating.

As the night air freshened and the exercise forced her to take deep draughts of air, her pace slackened and the red haze of anger slowly dissipated, leaving her spent. She stopped at last to look about her. She was standing on the edge of a quay, looking down at the _Bassin de l'Arsenal_. On shaking legs she descended the steps that lead down to the water's edge. Upon reaching the wooden pier she leant heavily against the wall of the quay and slid down until she was in a sitting position, her knees folded up against her chest. Much like Cosette's pose had been.

Éponine's mind mercilessly replayed the whole scene. She had burned her last bridge with her own hand. The image of Marius' disgusted expression was seared into her mind. In that moment she had been every inch her father, that wrenching vengefulness, the spite . . . everything that was ugly and hateful . . . all had risen to the surface and she wished it could be skimmed off. But, no. This was who she was and she would never escape it. Smitten with shame at last, she wept loudly and bitterly; her wretchedness now complete.

People passing by on the quay looked down to see her pathetic mass huddled against the wall. Instead of going down to lend assistance, show some concern, they shied away.

"A _grisette's_ gone mad," they whispered to each other.

After a quarter of an hour Éponine's sobs quieted, leaving only the sharp gasps one has after a hard cry.

She stared blankly at the swirling Seine. A sense of _déjà vu_ swept over her. The exception with the present scene was that she was not on the Pont au Double and Marius was not coming to see her.

Yes, the water looked very inviting and there was no tether to keep her back from walking off the edge, slipping between the few private cutters and fishing sloops.

The bells of the Notre Dame Cathedral struck five o' clock then, as if they had been waiting on the grand lady's command, the surrounding churches began to peal the hour as well.

As the fifth chime sounded from the _Église Saint-Paul-Saint Louis_ Éponine heard her nickname being called by a low male voice. In an agonizing moment her exhausted heart leapt as it desperately gave into one last hope, that Marius had come after her, to tell her that it was all a terrible misunderstanding, a nightmare.

The water of the basin was fed by the _Canal Saint-Martin_, which ran underground beneath the _Place de la Bastille_ before emptying into the _Bassin de l'Arsenal_. The tunnel also had a towpath that ran alongside the canal, just as it has aboveground. Out from the mouth of this dark tunnel stepped a handsome young man, dressed in the height of fashion, even if that fashion were slightly frayed.

"Hello, Montparnasse."

. . . . . .

"Yes, _Monsieurs_, a woman of that description did come here and left in a hurry."

"Which way did she go?" Joly asked anxiously.

"I couldn't say," Basque sighed, "nor do I really care. The way she upset this entire household . . . Monsieur—the Baron's intended is recovering from some sort of shock and from what I can make out, the sole cause is that _grisette_."

"What happened?"

"Why should I tell you?"

"We're friends of Pontmercy—"

"_Le_ _Baron_, please!"

"He's only a baron under Buonaparte . . ." muttered Enjorlas. Joly gently elbowed him.

Basque looked slightly distressed. "It's at my master's—his grandfather's—insistence."

Suddenly, the voice of an older gentleman came floating down the stairs. "Nicolette! Where is she with those smelling salts? Basque! Who is at the door?"

"They say they are friend's of _le Baron_."

"My grandson is in no state for callers yet; tell them to leave their card and come back later!"

"_Oui, monsieur_." Basque turned back to Enjolras and Joly with an expectant look. Joly sighed and pulling out his calling card, handed it to Basque. The valet moved to close the door but Enjolras stepped forward.

"One last thing . . ."

Basque paused and gave him an exasperated look.

"How long ago was her departure?"

"About five minutes or so."

"_Merci_."

The pair swiftly went down the steps from the door and into the street. Enjolras immediately took charge. "Nothing for it but to search for her on foot. Joly, you go left, I'll go right. She could not have gone far. We'll rendezvous in an hour at the _Marché des Enfants Rouges_."

"Understood, Enjolras," Joly nodded, a half smile tugging at the corner of his lips. It was nice see a little bit of the old Enjolras again.


	18. La Transaction

**La Transaction**

Enjolras stared at the mouldering Elephant of the Bastille. Even though his mission was an urgent one, he could not help but pause for a moment of reminiscence. He had heard that plans were being put in motion to dismantle this monument of Buonaparte and replace it with another in commemoration of the 1830 revolution. He and many of his friends who later formed the _amis de l'abaisse_ took part in those "three glorious days". How bitterly soon were all their hopes dashed when what they had fought for became just another oppressor.

"Take away Louis Philippe the king, there remains the man. And the man is good. He is good at times even to the point of being admirable."* Enjolras said to himself and with a sigh walked away, leaving in his wake the fitting monument to his first great disappointment.

As he walked towards _Rue de Lyon_ scattered conversations interested his ear.

"The police should interfere . . . poor _grisette_ has lost her mind . . .weeping and wailing by the _Bassin de l'Arsenal_ . . .wonder if she'll drown herself."

Enjolras quickly turned onto the _Boulevard de la Bastille_.

. . . . . .

"So, it _is_ you, 'Ponine."

Éponine slowly stood as Montparnasse approached.

"Did father send you after me?"

The young criminal smiled that unnerving enigmatic smile of his. "Yes and no."

Éponine gave him an exasperated look, but inquired no further. Montparnasse always did as he liked. Orders to him were more like requests.

This charmer of the sepulcher stepped closer. Underneath his hat his wavy black hair gleamed with pomade in the light of the street lamps. Montparnasse took off his blue-tinted spectacles to get a better look at her in the failing light. He observed her clean hair, which, although a mess now, bore traces of having been pinned back. He gazed at her plum day dress, appreciating the way the bodice hugged her now well-nourished curves.

"Well, well! Who's been keeping you?"

Éponine was silent. She had not the desire nor strength to correct him at the moment.

"This _bourgeois_ has thrown you off, then?" He sidled up to her and slipped a slender arm about her shoulder, pulling her against him.

"Got tired of you at last, has he?" He felt Éponine stiffen underneath his arm. How pleasant. "Ah, that's always the way of it. But, I'm still here. Remember you used to call me 'dear 'Parnasse'? Come, come, tell old 'Parnasse your troubles, like you used to when we were kids." His lithe fingers curled around her shoulders, relishing the feel of the new softness they found there.

"Whoever it was fed you well, too."

"No one 'kept me', 'Parnasse!"

"No?" Montparnasse gave her a doubtful look. "So, you found work then . . . or did you—"

"No, I did not _steal_ these clothes." Éponine slipped out from under his arm. "I'm not you."

"What a shame. Well, however you got them . . . you do look pretty. And you know that I don't say that to just _any_ girl."

Éponine said nothing. She did not have the will to argue anymore. She let him come close again. As he drew aside her hair from off her right shoulder all she did was stare at the dark water, at the boats bobbing on the waves. Éponine did not even blink when he placed a small kiss at the base of her neck.

Once upon a time, before Marius had entered Éponine's life, she and Montparnasse had something of an understanding. But, Éponine always knew that Montparnasse, who valued, above all things, the elegant and beautiful, only stayed around her to benefit from her father's clever little brain, whose happy talent for devising schemes was a great asset to the _Patron-Minette_. M. Thénardier even took to calling the young man "son-in-law". At the time Éponine had not really cared what his motives were. He was heartbreakingly beautiful and she eagerly took whatever attention he would give. Yes, they had shared many kisses and might have shared more had a certain Baron not arrived at the Gorbeau house when he did. Never again did she deign to look on Montparnasse as she had, because, for the first time in her life, she knew what it was to be treated by a man with civility and kindness. Marius had ruined Éponine for the sporadic, selfish affections of the handsome assassin forever.

Yet, here she was again in his arms.

Montparnasse began to lead her away, to where, she could only guess. But, of what he had in mind she was certain.

"_Mademoiselle_ Thénardier?"

The pair looked to the new voice. Éponine sucked in a sharp gasp of surprise when she saw Grégorie Enjolras standing in their way, looking determined yet uncertain at the same time. This was strange ground for him.

"Who's this, 'Ponine?"

"I don't know."

_Go away. Go away. Go away, _she willed Enjolras with her eyes.

"I'm a friend."

Éponine's eyebrows shot up.

Montparnasse ran a calculating eye over the newcomer. Enjolras' wardrobe, manner of address and demeanor told him he was dealing with a bourgeois of the first water. With a swift, well-practiced, motion Montparnasse pulled Éponine against him and held a knife to her throat.

"What's she worth to you, _Monsieur_?"

Enjolras was briefly thrown by the sudden, unexpected turn things had taken, but he let none of it show except for a fleeting widening of the eyes.

"How dare—"

"How much?" Montparnasse pressed a little harder, just enough to cause a thin spot of red to appear. Éponine flinched but did not cry out.

In the past Enjolras always made sure to keep a decent amount of money on him in order to distribute it to those in need or to his cause. But, that was then, when he was himself. He slowly felt inside his coat and realized he had left his wallet behind. He looked back up at the pair, not letting the awful helplessness he felt show on his face. Éponine avoided his gaze. Instead of frightened, she looked ashamed.

Enjolras' hands slowly reached up behind his neck and unclasped his father's crucifix. Éponine's eyes widened in shock

"_Monsieur_, no . . ."

Enjolras ignored her and she watched, horrified, as the treasured item passed from his hands to Montparnasse's.

The assassin smiled congenially at the revolutionary. "_Merci_, _Monsieur_." Then with a swift movement he spun Éponine around in his arms, his knife still exposed and dangerously close to her face.

"Don't hold this against me, 'Ponine. You know how it is . . ."

"Yes. I know how it is."

Montparnasse suddenly leaned down and captured Éponine's lips in a lingering kiss. He gave a small sound of surprise when Éponine carefully wrapped her arms around his waist and kissed him back. After a moment more they parted.

"Goodbye, 'Parnasse," she said softly.

Montparnasse gazed at her, a flicker of regret in his eyes. But the moment passed and he touched his hat.

"_Adieu_, 'Ponine."

Éponine watched his retreating figure until it was completely taken by the night. She then turned to Enjolras. Éponine walked up to him and, taking his hand, pressed something cool into it.

Enjolras opened his palm and gave a cry of surprise when he saw his father's crucifix there.

"Éponine, how—?"

But Éponine was not there. He turned just as a loud splash came to his ears.

Éponine had thrown herself into the canal.

* * *

*Quoted from Lés Miserables.


	19. Worth More

**A/N: I was looking up the history of C.P.R. and found out some very interesting information. In brief: it apparently it started in 18th century Amsterdam in an effort to save victims of drowning. Four out seven of their techniques are still used in some form today. I wasn't expecting to write something so extraordinarily cliché but it just happened. Oh, well, sue me. Sorry for the massive delay, I've been distracted by BBC documentaries. Forgive me for the shortness, as well. I will update again soon I hope.**

. . . . . .

**Worth More**

Enjolras immediately dashed to the spot where the water's violent rippling and bubbles told of Éponine's location. He yanked off his already loosened cravat, shoved his necklace into his coat pocket before whipping off the garment. A prayer passed through his mind as he plunged into the tepid Seine.

To his dismay, the visibility in the murky depths of the Seine was minimal. He forced himself to keep calm as he felt blindly around for any sign of her. Éponine's dress of fortunately of light material could not have dragged her far down, but there was the possibility that she could have forced herself much deeper.

Enjolras' searching hands brushed against what his senses would have taken for seaweed had he been in the ocean. He quickly grasped it and pulled. He was crossing hand-over-hand as if he were climbing a rope, drawing her to him as quickly as possible. Time and air were running short.

Enjolras finally felt the top of Éponine's head, her face, shoulders, then lastly, her waist and he propelled himself and Éponine to the surface with a powerful kick. He carefully kept her head above water, but did not dare take the time to assess her condition in his desperate bid for the dock.

At last, with his still healing wounds screaming in protest, he hauled them both onto the pier.

Onlookers, who heard the commotion, began to gather on the fringes, silently looking on but offering no assistance.

Enjolras turned Éponine over so she lay on her back. He put a hand on her chest and felt no movement. He looked at her body helplessly for a moment then his mind suddenly ran to a memory from months ago:

Joly had been in a corner of the backroom of the Café Musain, rattling off about something new he had learned at the Sorbonne that day. How in Amsterdam, in last century, to deal with the many drownings that plagued the city the Society for Recovery of Drowned Persons had devised seven techniques to restore life. Joly had listed the practices that were the most effective. Enjolras was infinitely glad he had decided to listen that day, but whether those techniques would be of any help to him now or if he could apply them properly, remained to be seen.

In Enjolras' quick mind this recollection occurred in less than a minute and he immediately began to implement what he remembered:

_"Apply manual pressure to the abdomen."_

Enjolras tried that. Water dribbled out of Éponine's mouth, but no response followed.

The few onlookers were now a crowd and getting closer.

_"Hang the body upside down to drain the water out."_

_Not possible at this moment._

_"Pinch the nostrils closed and exhale directly into the mouth of the drowned person, making sure both nostrils are held till the chest is filled and has swelled; then compress the chest to expel the air introduced. Repeat as necessary."_

Enjolras turned scarlet but, fully aware that now was not the time for delicacy, he pinched Éponine's nose and put his lips to hers. He ignored the faint, collective feminine gasps from the bystanders around him. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Éponine's chest rise with his breath and gently pressed it back down.

Nothing.

He repeated it.

Nothing.

Once more.

Éponine's body convulsed and Enjolras experienced the unpleasant taste of regurgitated river water. He sat back and spat over his shoulder as Éponine rolled onto her side to cough and wretch, finishing the expulsion of the water.

"Éponine?"

Éponine turned her head towards him, a look of understandable disorientation about her. Her expression cleared as she remembered the events of the last half-hour. She stared at Enjolras, her expression inscrutable. Enjolras held out a hand to her, but she made no move to take it, seemingly content to just lay there and stare at him until he became more self-conscious than he already was.

The drama apparently over, the curious crowd began to disperse and, once they reached their respective dwellings, grabbed their nearest neighbor to gossip about it.

After a few uncomfortable minutes, Éponine finally spoke. After the violent coughing she could only manage a harsh whisper.

"Why did you do that?" She asked.

Enjolras' dark blond brows drew together. "It grieves me that you would even ask."

"I am nothing to you."

Enjolras' back straightened and his voice rose with indignation and, he realized, hurt, "Even if that were true, do you think so little of me to suppose that I would stand idly by while a fellow creature drowned?"

"Not that, _Monsieur_ . . . your necklace."

"Ah, that." Enjolras' angry expression melted into gentleness, and his tone softened. "It is only a necklace, Mademoiselle; a bit of dead gold. But, you are a person and as such, worth far more."

"But . . . your father . . ."

"Is dead. I keep this crucifix not just for its own sake, but for the memories it evokes. Even without it the memories will remain."

Éponine stared at him again; the man had surprised her once more. She had never met anyone like him, not even in comparison to Marius.

"Come," Enjolras said, holding out his hand again. This time Éponine took it and, unsteadily, they rose to their feet, both equally relying on the other for support.

. . . . . .

**A/N #2: Ok. I've got Éponine's theme song for this fic! My nephew introduced me to the band Lights, specifically the song "Heavy Rope". Look it up on Spotify or iTunes, what-have-you, the lead vocalist is even a little reminiscent of Frances Rufelle (original English Éponine). Also "Mort D'éponine" from Honegger's score of "Les Misérables" (1934) and "L'un vers l'autre" a song sung by Éponine in the Les Misérables original concept album. I created a playlist on Spotify called "Nos Petites Vies" ("Our Little Lives") so, if any of you have Spotify and want to check it out, feel free. All the above mentioned songs are on there and I'm still adding music.**


	20. To Market

A/N: Sorry it's been a while, dear readers! I've just been busy and my muse left me for awhile. I'm pulling her back, kicking and screaming. Fun/dull fact: Paris was made up of twelve _arrondissements_ _municipaux_ (administrative districts) until 1860, when they were rearranged under Napolean III to number twenty.

. . . . . .

**To Market**

Inspector Martin let out a long tired sigh as he stared at the list before him. His wife echoed his sigh as she ladled _ratatouille niçoise_ on his plate.

"_Ma chéri_, must you bring your work to the dinner table?"

"Yes, _chéri_."

His wife gave another significant sigh and turned on their three children, informing them, as she did every night, that their toys had no place at the table.

"That means you, too, Louisa," she said to the youngest of their three girls who had tried to hide her book in her lap.

"But, _Pére_—" whined Louisa. Her mother gave her a quelling look.

"Louisa, heed you mother."

Now under stern looks from both fronts Louisa conceded and sulkily replaced her book on the shelf.

Inspector Martin returned to the paper. One column was the list of those students of the Sorbonne with the surname Enjolras. Ten students. The column beside it was significantly longer. Not all those at the barricade of Rue de la Chanvrerie were necessarily students. The list contained anyone by the name of Enjolras residing in all twelve _arrondissements_ of Paris.

Perhaps it would be best to go directly to the Sorbonne and request to see the lists of students whose names had been stricken from the rolls within the past two months.

Out of his waistcoat pocket Martin withdrew the list of names taken by Javert at the barricade. He laid both sheets out in front of him and stared hard at them, as if willing the scraps to suddenly come to life and give him the answers.

Suddenly, one of his children shouted and a stream of watered down wine flooded his end of the table, soaking the papers. A string of choked back curses left Martin's mouth.

"That's what you get," his wife said, smugly handing him a rag.

"Sorry, _Pére_."

. . . . . .

Enjolras wrapped Éponine in his dry coat. She tried to protest, but Enjolras gave her a stern look that brooked no argument. Under that masterful gray-blue gaze she had no choice but to yield.

At the top of the quay stairs a kind onlooker, at last, took action and called a fiacre for them. When he realized they had no money he paid the amount that would take them the short distance to _Marché des Enfants Rouges_.

The ride was silent. Éponine sat with her hands in her lap and kept her eyes trained on them. She seemed to be deep in contemplation. When they pulled up to the gate of the market Enjolras leaned out of the fiacre door and motioned to the driver to lend an ear.

"Wait here, please." The driver nodded "and would you keep an eye on my friend?" The driver shook his head then held out his hand and rubbed his fingers together meaningfully. Enjolras motioned to his pockets, indicating his lack of funds. The driver shrugged his shoulders and shook his head.

Enjolras lingered with one foot on the ladder and the other still inside the coach. He turned to Éponine.

"Will you promise to wait here until I return with Joly?"

"No."

Enjolras hesitated a moment in indecision before stretching his hand towards her. "Come with me, then."

Éponine was a little relieved. She did not really want to be left alone. She grasped the hand offered to her and descended to the street. Enjolras did not immediately let go of her hand like she had expected him to and instead he led her to the market gate like a child being dragged after its mother. Éponine resented this and was about to protest when soon she understood why Enjolras did what he did: the market was so densely packed with people as to make it impossible to walk arm-in-arm; even now the crush threatened to separate them.

The pair wove around people and stalls. Éponine glanced furtively around her. Even in proper, albeit sodden, clothes, she could not shake the idea that the crowd knew her "true nature" and was judging Enjolras' for his familiarity with her. Wearing his coat did not help. But, the crowd could not have cared less and took no notice of them. To the world the pair were just another scholar and _grisette_, one of thousands littering the Parisian streets. Éponine tried to jerk her hand free but that only caused Enjolras' grip to tighten. He was afraid that if she were turned loose she would run off and make another attempt in the business of self-elimination.

After a minute Éponine gave up the effort of freeing herself. She fixed her eyes on him, avoiding the imagined accusatory looks. As she stared she absent-mindedly traced the contours of his muscular back, which were made apparent through the wet fabric of his shirt and waistcoat. Her mind mulled over the extraordinary things Enjolras had done and said over the whole of their acquaintance, particularly what had transpired in the _Bassin de l'Arsenal_. He had saved her life twice, was willing to give up a treasured possession for her sake; said she was worth something . . . he called her his friend.

An overwhelming rush of gratitude and admiration filled her heart, warming her, the way a blazing hearth does to one lately in from the cold. Her hand, which had been limp in his, now gripped it in return. Enjolras glanced over his shoulder at her. Éponine, feeling suddenly flustered, looked away.

When the pair came upon a flower stall Enjolras stopped. The flower stall was where Joly, Bossuet and he, on occasion, would meet up before heading to the Café Musain for meetings. It was where Joly always went to purchase flowers for Musichetta, as well. Enjolras explained all this to Éponine in brief.

"_Mademoiselle _. . ."

"What?"

"If I let go of your hand, will you run?"

Éponine met his serious gaze with an equally serious one of her own.

"No, _Monsieur_."

"Promise me."

"Do you trust me to keep my promise?"

"Yes."

The corners of Éponine's mouth lifted a little. "Then, I promise."

Finger-by-finger Enjolras released his grip. Once free, Enjolras cleared his throat and, holding his hands behind his back, began to scan the crowd. Éponine occupied herself by fingering the different bouquets at the stall.

"Ah! You _are_ here!" Joly came running up to them. His eyes immediately assessed their sodden state. He gave them an amused, quizzical look, tilting his head to the side.

"What in the name of Saint Luke happened to you?"

"She lost her footing in the dark by the Canal St. Martin and fell in. Fortunately, I was there to assist her."

"Oh." Joly frowned, not quite sure if he believed it. "Well, since we are here I might as well purchase a bouquet of dried flowers for Musichetta, then we'll return to the house."

Once he was finished Joly moved to Éponine's left side and firmly took her hand. Enjolras reclaimed the one on the right.

They made a strange trio, two men holding the hands of one woman, walking through the crowds of the _Marché des Enfants Rouges._

. . . . . .

I hope all you wonderful readers who subscribed to the playlist "Nos Petites Vies" are enjoying the music!


	21. News

A/N: Sorry for the long wait! I had a lot of library books to plough through. Libraries are for me like a buffet and I always take more than I can read. :) On top of that the Christmas season has kept me busy shopping and decorating, etc. . . .

. . . . . .

**News**

Upon entering the townhouse Joly immediately prescribed for his charges hot baths. The men of course insisted that Éponine use it first. She was ushered into the hands of Joséphine who clucked her tongue at the sight of her. After the wet clothes were peeled off, Joséphine wrapped her up in a clean linen sheet and ordered to stay in her room, for heaven's sake.

Joséphine clucked her tongue again as she set a large kettle on the lit range.

"It isn't right that that kind of girl is here under the roof with two unattached men—"

"Three," Anatole added with a wink.

Joséphine rolled her eyes. "You don't count, old man."

"Old man? I'm seven and forty—"

"Old."

"Well then, on that point at two and forty you're no spring chicken either, my dear."

Joséphine sniffed disdainfully. "I know that. And I'm proud of it. I wear it as a badge of courage. Since when did getting old become such an awful thing? The way things are nowadays it's a blessing we're still alive."

"Indeed," Anatole said, a solemn note creeping into his voice.

"But, I've strayed from my point, which is that this is the strangest little household we find ourselves in, Anatole."

"It isn't our business what kind of household it is, 'Phine, only to serve."

"But, the scandal it might bring to our young master, not to mention the danger; that tall young man—"

"Hold your tongue!"

Joséphine blustered, but grudgingly submitted, but not without one more say. "Fine, I will say no more on the matter, but mark my words, Anatole, nothing good will come of it!"

. . . . . .

With a sigh Éponine sank into the metal tub. As Joséphine had ascended the stairs with the kettle she had been stopped at the landing by Enjolras, who bid her stay with Éponine. She nodded, but had no intention of complying. That is, until the sight of the shivering, miserable Éponine stirred an odd flash of pity in her heart. She insisted on staying and giving the child a good scrubbing.

Joséphine was not a cold-hearted woman, but, having been in service all her life to the Joly family, had very strict views on the class system and was fiercely protective of the family. The Joly family was of the upper middle class with some attachments to the nobility and they had deigned to take in a small lonely orphan, later known as Joséphine, as scullery maid. No references, no questions, all compassion. They gave her a comfortable bed; three satisfactory meals a day and steady occupation to keep her from idleness; not to mention the friends she found among the other servants, who looked after each other as a real family would.

"You really don't have to, Joséphine." Éponine's voice broke through the maidservant's thoughts.

"You look like you barely have the strength to hold a cake of soap, much less scrub yourself. So, hush."

Éponine was indeed to tired to argue and let Joséphine have her way.

When the ablutions were over Joséphine helped her into a clean shift and wrapped her in a dressing gown. Éponine was in the middle of thanking her when a hearty sneeze interrupted her gratitude.

"Oh, no. You best get yourself into bed, child," Joséphine commanded. "I'll bring up a tray of bread and broth when I've done getting that Monsieur Enjolras' bath prepared."

Joséphine opened the casement and heaved the bathwater out of the window, narrowly missing a loitering _gamin_. A string of colorful curses followed.

"Close your filthy little mouth, little man. It's a pity I missed you, you look like you could do with a bit of bathwater."

Éponine's ears perked up at the saucy retort from the gamin. She recognized that voice. Éponine grabbed the casement window panes as Joséphine attempted to close them and stuck her head out of the window.

"Maurice!"

The _gamin's_ all too large pale eyes widened. "Is that you, 'Ponine? Wow! You landed yourself in the honey pot, eh? Are you on a job?"

Éponine ignored the scandalized cough from the maidservant behind her.

"No!" Éponine said with a vehement shake of her head.

"Oh. Have you seen Gavroche lately?"

"You haven't?"

"Last time I saw him he was headin' for the barricades with those _bourgeois_ students."

Éponine gripped the windowsill. Come to think of it, she had not seen him since either. She thought she caught a glimpse of him at the barricades, she was not sure. She had been distracted.

"Come inside and have a bite to eat and tell me more news."

"Sure! Much obliged!"

Joséphine, who had been listening to this exchange with growing horror, finally interrupted.

"Oh, no he is not! We ain't running a charity kitchen!"

Éponine turned on her with a sudden fierceness. "If you don't let him in, I will go outside to talk to him in this dressing gown."

"You wouldn't!"

"I would."

"But—but the neighbors . . ."

Éponine ran to the door. She knew Joséphine would not dare to lay a hand on her now that she was an official guest.

"Fine," the maidservant sighed. "Ten minutes."

"Twenty."

Éponine could almost hear Joséphine grinding her teeth. "Twenty."

. . . . . .

Éponine sat across from the ten-year old at the long worktable, watching him in nervous anticipation as he gobbled down a bowl of lentil stew and a hunk of bread.

"Thanks again, 'Ponine. I can't stay long, though. Peré's finally found a job and wants us to return home as soon as possible tonight. He's the new gravedigger at the Montparnasse cemetery. Seems the last one kicked the bucket and he gets to bury 'im. He says if I'm extra good he'll let me help next time!"

"_Mon Dieu_ . . ." Joséphine muttered, crossing herself. Then with a swift movement she removed the kettle from the range and left the kitchen to fill the tub for Enjolras' bath. Anatole was not nearly so scandalized and even laughed.

"Speaking of fathers, yours is looking for you," Maurice said through a hunk of bread.

Éponine let out a derisive snort. "I'm sure he is. Thanks for letting me know, but I'm not worried, I can handle my father. Tell me again, when did you last see Gavroche . . . ?"

"I saw him going with the Professor and his lot to the barricades . . ." The 'professor' was what the _gamins_ called Enjolras.

Éponine rose from the bench. "I'll ask Enjolras . . ." she muttered.

"The Professor's here?"

Éponine could almost kick herself. No doubt Maurice was trustworthy, most of Gavroche's comrades were, but nonetheless . . . "In that case," Maurice broke into her thoughts, "I've got news for him."

. . . . . .

Enjolras breathed in the steam rising from the hot water and slowly exhaled. A warm rag lay on his eyes, gradually easing the ache that had been forming behind them. He willed himself to think of nothing at all, or to at least slow his racing thoughts. He absently rolled the cake of soap in his hands, turning the water opaque and milky.

He could not stay here under the protection of Joly forever. He had a feeling that Joly was coming to a point with Musichetta that he was either going to propose or get her with child, hopefully the former first. He had to have a plan. Self-slaughter was definitely out. That such a cowardly notion ever entered his head shamed him. He would not entertain flight to Britain or America; he could not abandon France. His father had many connections he could contact, but he dared not risk involving them, not unless he was very desperate, and as of yet that time had not come.

And Éponine . . .

What _of_ Éponine?

"_Monsieur_ Enjolras!" the woman in question suddenly burst into his room. In his surprise the soap went flying from his hand and he dove under the milky water until it lapped his chin.

"Good God, _Madam_! What are you doing in here? Have you lost your mind? Have you no sense of—"

"Oh, never mind that—there's an inspector on your tail!"


	22. Un cœur cassé, un cœur vaillant

**_Un cœur cassé, un cœur vaillant_**

. . . . .

"What inspector? Not Javert . . ."

Maurice, who had been hiding behind Éponine, took this opportunity to poke his head out. "Naw, they fished 'im out of the Seine weeks ago."

Enjolras raised his head and tilted it slightly to the side to get a better look at the _gamin_. He frowned as he processed this confusing bit of information and continued to stare with disconcertion at the presence of another pair of unwanted eyes.

"Out."

"But—," Éponine began.

"_Now_."

"_Pardon_, _Monsieur_," Éponine murmured and lowered her eyes, resembling a scolded pup. She pulled Maurice out of the room and closed the door.

Enjolras lifted himself out of the tub. He did not know what had been meant by having an inspector on his tail, was he practically on their doorstep or was he still on the hunt? Either way, he would not be arrested naked. Enjolras spared the tub a brief glance of regret before drying himself off and hastily donning his freshly laundered clothes. It would remain to be seen if there was time to shave. It was a good thing Joséphine had not seen Éponine standing at his door. He doubted if even Joly could have saved her then.

Enjolras moved to the mirror to tie his cravat and saw with consternation that his cheeks were still quite red. He tried to write it off as the heat of the bath water but he knew mortification when he felt it. What nettled him most, though, was the fact that Éponine did not blush. Not once during the course of the entire conversation. That was the most vexing thing.

. . . . . .

Enjolras found Éponine, Maurice and Joly in the study. All the curtains were drawn and Éponine sat against the wall under one of the windows, clutching a poker between her two red hands; her lips were pressed together in a grim line. Maurice was standing by the bookshelf, reverently running his fingers along the spines of the various titles. Joly was perched on the edge of the desk with his arms folded, looking grave.

"Have you read _all _these, Doc?" the _gamin_ asked Joly in an awed voice.

"Just about."

"What is the situation?" Enjolras demanded. "Quickly now!"

"Well, Professor . . ." Maurice paused to clear his throat and moved to the middle of the room; three pairs of adult eyes were riveted on him. A crooked smile slid across his face. As the middle child of five Maurice reveled in the attention and was tickled to be the center of it twice in one day. "Well," he repeated, "it's like this: this Inspector Martin—he's taken over for Javert, see—well, word is among us _gamins_ that the inspector has been asking around town about a '_monsieur_ Enjolras from the barricades . . . though he don't seem to be making much progress, everyone thinks you're dead.'"

"And?"

"That's it, professor." Maurice beamed and held out an open palm in expectation of reward.

There was a pregnant pause. Then Éponine launched herself from the corner and gripped Maurice by the ear.

"_Un crapaud_! From the way you rattled on in the kitchen it sounded like he was practically biting at our heels!"

Poor Maurice howled in pain and blubbered in a torrent of argot his apologies and that he had meant no harm, he just got carried away.

Éponine kept her hold on Maurice as she turned to Enjolras. "If I had known it wasn't so bad as he said I wouldn't have barged in like that, _monsieur_ Enjolras, I swear! I've a good mind to box your ears, _tu_ _petit malfrat_!"

"Barged in . . .?" Joly tilted his head giving Enjolras an amused, quizzical look.

Enjolras ignored him. "Leave him, _mademoiselle_. His news is not as urgent as first believed, but it is important news nonetheless." He fished a five-franc coin from his waistcoat pocket and held it out to Maurice. "Thank you."

The _gamin_ shrugged off Éponine's grip and greedily snatched the coin from Enjolras' fingers.

"Thank _you_, Professor!"

Maurice, seeing that he had far outstayed his welcome, made for the door, but Enjolras stopped him with a firm hand on his small shoulder and knelt down until he was eye-to-eye with the _gamin_.

"For the sake of France, swear to me that you will tell no one where I am."

"I swear, _monsieur_," Maurice answered with a solemnity that betrayed a soul much older than his nine-year old body.

Enjolras gave him another coin and sent him on his way.

Joly and Enjolras made to exit the study, but Éponine shyly grasped Enjolras' shirtsleeve (in his haste he had left off his jacket).

"A moment, _Monsieur_?"

Enjolras stopped but did not turn to face her; afraid she would see the slight blush coloring his cheeks at the memory of his recent embarrassment. Joly paused at the door and turned to look his friend with a suggestive smile on his face.

"'Barged in?'"

Enjolras threw him a warning glare that promised painful consequences if the insinuations continued. Joly held up a hand in surrender and left the room still smiling, idiotically.

Enjolras waited another moment until he felt his cheeks cool then turned to Éponine.

"What would you with me, madam?" His tone came out colder than he intended and felt a pang of guilt when Éponine bit her lip and looked down.

"I _am_ sorry," she muttered.

Still no blush.

When one lives below the poverty line things like privacy and modesty do not exist. It was nothing Éponine had not seen before, thus she was unaffected by it. But, she did feel sorry for Enjolras' sake because she was aware of his acute embarrassment. If he had not been so sorely discomfited she might have laughed at his reaction, which reminded her of a mortified maiden. But, she cleared her head of these thoughts and returned to the present.

"Monsieur, did you see Gavroche at the barricades?"

"Gavroche the _gamin_?"

"Yes."

"Yes . . ." he said slowly. "Why do you ask?"

"He's my brother."

"Your brother! Oh, _Mademoiselle_ Thénardier if I had known . . . your brother . . . is dead, _Mademoiselle_."

Éponine blinked at him a moment. "Dead?" she repeated dumbly, the idea processing with difficulty. "I—it can't be . . ." Éponine moved over to the wingback chair by the small fireplace and sat down slowly, her legs suddenly unable to support her body. She clasped her hands in her lap, her face an expression of grief mingled with confusion.

Enjorlas knelt down beside the chair and gently laid a hand over hers.

"I don't understand . . ." Éponine said quietly, her eyes moving around the room without seeing anything. "He took better care of himself than any of us . . ."

"He died bravely, _Mademoiselle_."

Éponine closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly.

"Tell me."

Enjolras told her how Gavroche boldly risked his life to gather ammunition from the dead soldiers lying outside the barricade. How he brazenly sang and taunted the soldiers who fired at him, showing no fear, buying them a little more time with the bullets he gleaned at the expense of his own life.

To Enjolras' surprise Éponine laughed softly."He _would_ go that way." Her eyes shone with pride and unshed tears. "Good for him."

"I did not want him to be there . . . I wish I had been more forceful. If I had known—"

"You wouldn't have been able to keep him away. Once he sets—once he had set his mind to something, there was no shaking him."

Enjolras smiled a little at that. "Can I get you anything?" he asked after a moment, not knowing what else to say.

Éponine finally looked at him. "A small glass of wine, please," she said with a sniff, hastily wiping her eyes.

Enjolras went to the decanter at the other end of the study and poured her a glass of claret. Éponine swiftly knocked-back the alcohol without a flinch, which made Enjolras raise an appreciative eyebrow. For a moment he wondered who would have lasted longest in a drinking contest, she or Grantaire?

Éponine handed the glass back to Enjolras.

"Thank you." She rose from the chair and moved to the door. "Goodnight, _Monsieur _Enjolras."

"Goodnight, _Mademoiselle_."

* * *

_Un cœur cassé, cœur vaillant_: a broken heart, a valiant heart.

_Un crapaud_: Brat (modern French argot)

_Tu_ _petit malfrat: _(I don't know if the construction of the sentence is right, but "malfrat" is supposedly modern French argot for criminal. I'm using modern French argot since I have no reference for 19th century argot, outside of Hugo's novel).


	23. Ill

A/N: I'm back! I hope everyone had a lovely New Year!

* * *

**Ill**

The next day dawned cheerfully, but inside the house on the _Quai d'Anjou_, two of its inhabitants were decidedly not. As a result of their dip in the less than sanitary Seine Éponine and Enjolras were struck with colds. Éponine's condition was worse than Enjolras', given the fact that she ingested more water than he. Joly ordered Éponine to stay in bed.

"I knew no good would come of that sneezing," Joséphine said smugly as she bustled into the bedroom, bearing broth and bread.

"Thank you, _Maman_," Éponine said wryly.

"I'm nobody's _maman_ and especially not yours, now eat!"

Éponine, despite the life she had led, had been blessed with a hearty constitution and was not often sick. She lay on her side, her head snugly ensconced in her pillow. In the stillness she could not help but think and recall. The last time she had been ill was also the first time she had met Marius . . .

_He had just moved into the Gorbeau House and was passing her in the corridor, hauling his portmanteaux. Éponine had been suffering from a slight sore throat, but at the sight of Marius' superfine coat and genuine leather portmanteaux she let out a terrific sneeze, followed by a series of hearty coughs in the hopes of conning a franc or two off of him._

_Marius promptly put down his burdens and held out to her a handkerchief of fine white linen._

_"I wish I had something more to give you, but I'm poorer than a church-mouse at the moment," He was so genuinely apologetic that Éponine felt embarrassed and stammered out her thanks as he gently pressed the linen into her hand with best wishes for her better health . . ._

Éponine clutched her pillow and squeezed her eyes shut against the pain in her heart. A small tear slipped down her nose.

"Marius . . ."

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door, thankfully pulling her out of her memories and back into the present. It was Joly, coming to check on her. In his hands, besides his bag, was a book. After inspecting her condition, and finding it improving, he presented it to her.

"I thought this might amuse you."

Éponine looked at the spine and read the title. "'Éponine and Sabinus'." She let out a bark of laughter. "I wonder if this is where my _maman_ got my name . . ."

"Possible. It's an old love story, from Roman times."

Éponine looked up at him with a grateful smile. She could not stay sad in this house.

. . . . . .

Enjolras' cold was mild. Despite a streaming nose and Joly's protests, he would not be confined to his bed. But, after much pleading, Joly was able to get him to at least sit still for a couple of hours. Of course, sitting still for him meant working on his articles and pouring over the newspapers for inspiration on what steps to take next.

"I've been writing letters," Joly said, interrupting one such perusal late that evening.

"Oh?" Enjolras replied, not looking up. "Good for you."

"What I mean to say is, I've been corresponding with my cousin. He's secretary to the mayor of Saint Prisca, a small farming hamlet in Auvergne."

Enjolras made a non-committal "hm".

"They're looking for a new school master and I took the liberty of mentioning you as a possible candidate."

Now he was listening. "What?"

"Not using your real name, of course. Auvergne is eight days journey from Paris, a safe distance. Given your oration skills I think you would be able to pull it off. Also, remember our cover for the _amis de l'abaisse_ was 'ABC', a society dedicated to improving the education of the impoverished. You could think of it as making the cover real, in a way . . . I still have the copybooks."

Enjolras stood up and began to pace the room, mulling over this new information. After a minute he sat down heavily in one of the wingback chairs. After a long pause Enjolras looked up at Joly with a small smile.

"Was it a glowing recommendation?"

"Oh, the brightest!"

"Well done, Joly."

Suddenly, there was a knock on the study door.

"Enter."

Éponine poked her head in. "I'm just returning this."

The men nodded and waited as she scampered in and replaced the book on the shelf.

"Did you like it?" Joly asked, his smile having a hint of teasing about it.

"Yes, _Monsieur_. Thank you." Before she scuttled out again Éponine paused at the study door.

"I'm feeling much better, _Monsieur_. Tomorrow I'm going to start looking for a job, too."

"I congratulate your decision but, you really should not eavesdrop, _mademoiselle_," Enjolras said, a small frown on his face.

"I wasn't eavesdropping . . . I was just standing near the door and happened to hear what you were saying."

"That's eavesdropping."

Éponine shrugged her shoulders. "Very well, I was eavesdropping." With that Éponine left the room and the men went back to discussing their plans.

. . . . . .

* * *

A/N: Sorry the chapter was so short, it's late and I'm brain-dead. But, I have a lot more written down in my little notebook.


	24. A Little Bribe Never Hurt Anyone

**A Little Bribe Never Hurt Anyone**

Inspector Martin sat down with a sigh behind his large oak desk. He had just spent the past five hours chasing leads that lead to dead ends. The usual _gamins_ had suddenly become equivocal in their answers and some went completely tight-lipped and could not be made to speak for all the money or threats in the world. It was not just loyalty to their friends that closed their mouths, they were not afraid of Martin. Unfortunately the _gamins_ had sized up him pretty quick and sensed his leniency to children. No, they did not fear him as they had feared Inspector Javert, who had treated uncooperative children just as he had treated the adults: without mercy.

Martin had called at the house of Monsieur Gillenormand, deciding to track down the other names while he mulled over the Enjolras riddle. He was soon settled on that score when Monsieur Gillenormand fobbed him off with a considerable bribe. Had Martin been his predecessor M. Gillenormand would have been hauled off to _La Force_ along with his grandson. But, fortunately for the old _bourgeois_, Martin was not Javert and he happily pocketed the bribe; he could not afford the scruples with the way prices were soaring. He had a family to feed and his salary was becoming frighteningly inadequate. No one was safe, not even those in the pay of the King.

Martin took the envelope of money out of his coat and locked it away in a secret compartment inside one of the desk drawers. He was just turning the key in the lock when a young policeman came in bearing a letter.

"It's for Inspector Javert . . . but I guess it goes to you now."

"Yes, I'll take it," Martin growled, his mood, only momentarily elevated by his recent rise in funds, soured again as he was reminded of his increasingly frustrating task. He snatched it from the policeman's hands and curtly dismissed him.

Martin held the letter up to the light, his black brows knitting together as he gazed at it. The address was written in thick black script, telling him the sender had pressed hard into the paper, yet not so hard that he broke the pen nib, the script stayed clean. The flawless penmanship was a clear indication of the bourgeoisie. Martin had an affinity for writing and enjoyed the science. He broke the seal and unfolded the letter:

_June 11, 1832_

_Number 9 allée de Tureene, _

_île Feydeau, Nantes _

_Dear Monsieur Inspector Javert,_

_ My name is Étienne-Didier Enjolras and I am writing to on behalf of my most distressed sister-in-law who has not heard from her son for nigh on three weeks. His name is Grégorie-L_ (here there was a large inkblot)_ Enjolras and he is a student of law enrolled at the Sorbonne. We have heard of the dreadful news of the student revolt that happened in the past week and are extremely anxious, fearing he may have taken part in it, for he is highly excitable. Trace him and let us know, with all haste, your findings and put our fears to rest and win our everlasting gratitude. _

_Enclosed you will find a more material expression of our appreciation._

_ Your Obedient Servant,_

_ Étienne-Didier Enjolras, Esq._

He noticed then the bank draft of eight thousand francs attached to the back of the letter. If it were not for the old injury in his hip, souvenir of Waterloo, he would have danced a jig. The noonday sun streamed through his open window and he greeted it with equanimity. He had the name he wanted.

. . . . . .

Joséphine was no ladies maid but arranged Éponine's hair quite nicely. Éponine had looked on in silent wonder at the slow transformation, her jaw dropping by increasingly greater degrees as Joséphine brushed, pinned and pulled her unruly curls into a submissive knot on the crown of her head.

"You need to be looking smart when you go asking for employment in this city," Joséphine said as she made last touches with the curling tongs on the loose strands framing Éponine's face.

"Thank you, Joséphine," Éponine said in an awed whisper. She had watched it all happen but still had trouble reconciling the beautiful girl in the mirror to herself.

"My pleasure, mada—Éponine! You so look the part I forgot for a moment that you're not really a lady."

Éponine thanked her again, although with less enthusiasm and a wry smile. She drew on the fingerless lace gloves recommended by Joséphine and lent to her by Joly, once more out of his sister's left behind collection. Odd how his sister's collection seemed to grow . . .

"An employer will appreciate the sight of such red, hardworking hands," Joséphine said, "but no need to advertise it to the world."

"I say!" exclaimed Joly, on passing the dressing room door, which had been left ajar, to let in the cross breeze. "You look every inch the ideal Parisian _grisette_. You look beautiful—and you, Joséphine, you're a marvel!"

Joséphine flushed. "Thank you, Master Joly."

"Doesn't Éponine look pretty, Enjolras?" Joly grabbed his friend who had been passing behind him, about to make his way downstairs.

Éponine, who had been blushing under all the praise and attention, looked to see Enjolras peering over Joly's shoulder. His face was expressionless as his eyes swiftly assessed her. He then gave a nod and continued on his way.

Éponine was a little stung by this curt perusal and it must have shown on her face for Joly quickly said with a shrug, "Enjolras doesn't have an appreciation for fashion as you and I do."

Once Éponine was fitted with a bonnet Joly hired a fiacre and sent her on her way with exclamations of good luck on her hunt. The moment the fiacre rumbled out of sight Joly turned on his heel and stormed into the townhouse and did not stop storming until he stood in front of Enjolras, who was in the study firmly ensconced in the wingback chair with a copy of Cicero.

"You were a bit rude, Enjolras."

Enjolras' blue-gray eyes did not stray from the tome.

"What were you expecting, professions of deep admiration? A poem likening her figure to a Grecian urn? You seem to have mistaken me for Pontmercy."

"You could have at least said she looked nice."

"I thought my nod was a clear enough indication that her appearance met with my approval." Enjolras' face was still buried behind his book or otherwise he would have seen Joly's mime of throttling him.

"You know nothing about women!" Joly sighed in exasperation.

"And you know too much."

Joly, who had been about to stalk out of the room, suddenly pivoted on his heel.

"What have you heard?"

The apprehension in Joly's voice made Enjolras look up at last.

"Nothing . . ." he said slowly, truly in ignorance and wary of his friend's sudden unease. "Is there something I should know?"

Joly pulled out a handkerchief. Its edges were embroidered with depictions of lavender buds and roses, tied with blue ribbon, clearing stating that it belonged to a female, mostly likely Musichetta. He began to wring it mercilessly.

"I don't know. Don't ask me!"

Enjolras raised his dark eyebrows and sank back into his book, letting Joly have his way.

"It's just that . . ."

Enjolras sighed and lowered the book, looking at his friend expectantly.

"Musichetta has been canceling our meetings lately. Often. And when I go to her home, Evangeline says she's not there. On one occasion when she told me this I went across the street to the _Café du Jardin_ and sat at the window, watching. I know it sounds strange, but I just needed to know . . . Enjolras, I saw her at the window. She was home!"

"Perhaps you're sharing her again."

Joly frowned. "But, she would tell me . . . I don't want to share her."

Joly suddenly moved to the foyer called for his hat and coat. Enjolras moved to go with him. Joly certainly had a jealous look about him, but he was not a violently possessive man . . . but he might need support of some kind if Musichetta had taken on another lover. Bossuet was no longer around to keep an eye on him lest he should try to drown his sorrows in the nearest tap room. Joly never held his liquor well. One glass of red wine sent him under the table.

"No, Enjolras—" Joly held up a restraining hand, "it's not safe for you to go out. Besides, I need to do this on my own."

Enjolras nodded.

"Very well. Just don't do anything rash and make me have to come get you."


	25. Circumstances

**Circumstances**

"I'm sorry, _Mademoiselle_. As much as I could use the extra help, I just can't afford it right now," the owner of the _Café du Jardin_ said, looking sincerely apologetic as he wiped down a nearby table.

"I would work in return for room and board," Éponine persisted.

"There's no room, and even if there were we're making only just enough feed to ourselves and our little ones. I'm sorry . . . it's the economy you know."

Éponine looked in her reticule at the coins Joly had insisted on giving her to spend on any necessities she might need, plus a little extra in cases of emergency. She looked around at the tables; there were so many empty ones to choose from. She selected a seat by a window and, after sitting down, looked up at the proprietor expectantly. He gave her a small, grateful smile.

"I'll be right with you."

. . . . . .

Éponine slowly sipped her _café au lait_ and sighed. That made number twenty-two on her list of rejection. She rolled her aching ankles. She had become so accustomed to inactivity her feet had forgotten how to endure long hours of walking and were vehemently protesting. At least she had shoes that fit; nice tooled leather boots that came to a delicate point at her toes, which unfortunately pinched them. Ah! Such is the price of fashion!

Éponine leaned on her gloved hand and gazed out the window at the bustling street, absently observing the tableau of humanity passing by:

_Grisettes_ with their beaux; a truculent, overdressed bourgeois child being dragged along by a long-suffering nursemaid; two students, arms full of books, their heads bent close together as if in conference about secret things, another _Les Amis de l'Abaisse_ in the works? And across the street a familiar figure strode up to a townhouse in long, frantic strides. It was _Monsieur_ Joly and Éponine had not seen the caliber of disturbance that was on his face now since the days after the barricade's fall. She bit her lip in worry as she watched him enter the vaguely familiar looking townhouse.

_Perhaps he and his mistress are having a quarrel. Well, I hope it all turns out well in the end . . . I would not like to see kind Monsieur Joly unhappy . . ._

Éponine finished her coffee and made her way into the street once more, sparing the townhouse a glance before continuing on her way.

. . . . . .

Margot, the concierge of number 30, _Rue Saint-Marc_, had just settled down in her most comfortable chair with her favorite novel when the doorbell rang—not the dainty, meek ring that she was accustomed to—but an urgent jangling. Whoever it was seemed determined to yank the bell off the wall.

"Coming! Coming! For heaven's sake, is neighborhood on fire?"

On opening the door Margot half-expected to see a _gamin_ hanging on the pull for amusement, but instead met the familiar face of Joly.

"Is _Mademoiselle_ Girard in?"

"_Oui, Monsieur_."

Joly brushed past the concierge and took the stairs two at a time.

When Evangeline answered his knocks her eyes widened and she tried to shut him out, but Joly grabbed the door.

"What's the meaning of this?"

"Please, _Monsieur_, she doesn't want to see you."

"Why not? Why—"

Suddenly, from the recesses of the apartment there came a retching sound.

"Is Musichetta ill?" Joly asked in an alarmed voice. He did not wait for an answer but forced himself into the apartment and rushed to Musichetta's bedroom. There he found her crouched over a pail. Her hair had come loose from its pins and partially obscured an alarmingly pale face. Joly whipped off his hat and coat and bent down to hold her hair back.

When her vomiting finally ceased Musichetta raised her head to thank Evangeline for holding her hair. When she saw who it really had been she gave a small cry of dismay and quickly tried to rise to her feet but only succeeded in falling back on her bottom.

"Musichetta! What is wrong?" She let Joly help her into a nearby chair, but her eyes remained downcast. "Why didn't you tell me you were ill? I don't understand."

"_Monsieur_, please go," she whispered.

"'Chetta . . . I am not going anywhere, not until I've at least examined you."

Musichetta offered no excuses or explanations as he examined her, but stared morosely into space, her expression like one about to be led to the _guillotine_.

To Joly all her vitals seemed normal until he timed her pulse. As he did so his eyes grew wide and slowly rose to meet hers.

"Musichetta . . . you . . ."

The _grisette_ squeezed her eyes shut and a tear slipped down her ashen face.

"Mine?" Joly croaked. She nodded and another tear dropped.

Joly quickly rose to his feet, looking quite bewildered as he grabbed his hat and coat and left the room.

"Goodbye, Jean . . ." Musichetta murmured and buried her face in her red hands.

. . . . . .

Twenty minutes had passed since Joly had left and Musichetta had not stirred from her chair.

"Can I get you anything?" Evangeline ventured meekly, leaning against the doorframe. She felt guilty for letting Joly in.

Musichetta shook her head. "I knew this would happen . . ."

"I thought perhaps _Monsieur_ Joly was different . . ."

Musichetta turned a blazing pair of eyes on her roommate.

"Well, you were wrong!"

"I'm sorry."

"We've both heard enough stories to know better . . ."

"What will you do? The Opera won't keep on a pregnant dancer."

"Don't you think I know that?" Musichetta snapped, wiping furiously at her tears, trying to ignore the pain of her breaking heart and the rising tide of panic. What business would hire a pregnant woman and an unwed one at that? What about her half of the rent? All these things had been whirling in her brain ever since her time of the month failed to come.

Suddenly, a knock came on the door and Evangeline left the room to answer it. In the next moment Joly came in the room, his arms full of packages.

"Now, I want you to drink this when your stomach starts to feel sour." He set down a package on an end table and turned to Evangeline. "You need to cut up the ginger root and boil it for about five minutes, then strain it . . . what's wrong?"

The two women were looking at him as if he had suddenly sprouted a pair of wings and was flying about the room.

"You . . . came back?" Musichetta whispered.

"Of course I came back," Joly said confusedly. He looked at their nonplussed faces again. "What kind of man do you take me for?" He cried, rightly indignant. "I also have some other things here." Joly finished putting down the rest of the packages and turned to Evageline.

"Would you give us a moment, please?"

Evangeline smirked but did as asked and backed out of the room, closing the door behind her.

"There's one last thing," Joly said, rummaging inside his coat. He pulled out his bankbook and laid it on the end of the bed. Musichetta spied it and stiffened. So, he had returned only to bring her a few gifts and money out of guilt, and then he would take off?

"I'm very grateful for all this, _Monsieur_, but I don't want your money nor your gifts."

Joly looked pained and confused at her cold tone, then understanding overtook both expressions. "I only took that out to reach this . . ."

Joly drew out a small box and opened it then handed it to her so she could see its contents: a delicate gold ring.

"Marry me."

The _grisette's_ features softened then turned sad.

"Oh, Jean . . . thank you . . . but you don't need to feel obliged to . . ." She trailed off as she noticed that inside the ring was inscribed "to my darling Musichetta." Ordering a ring and inscription took more than twenty minutes time . . .

"It's not an obligation! I've been trying to propose to you for the past week but you kept canceling our meetings." Joly gently cradled her face in his hands, tilted it up towards his. "I love you, Musichetta," he said firmly.

Musichetta's eyes were full of grateful tears. Joly leaned down, but Musichetta beat him to it, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his in a hearty kiss.

. . . . . .

Enjolras had been in the parlor trying to read a copy of Cicero for the past half hour but the image of Éponine at the dressing table kept coming to the forefront of his thoughts, distracting him.

The gown of deep plum setting off her dark hair and eyes so well; the way the dress accentuated her generous curves when it nipped in at the waist and belled out at her hips; the pretty blush on her cheeks, the curve of her smile. Her bottom lip was fuller than her upper lip . . .

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door.

Enjolras jumped up from the chair, glad for the interruption of this disturbing train of thought. But, to his dismay it was the distraction herself. Éponine had returned from the hunt. She breezed into the parlor and plopped down on the sofa with a loud sigh, all very unladylike, but she did not care. She looked up to find Enjolras staring at her.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," he said and sank back behind his Cicero.

"Don't you want to know how my job hunt went?"

"Only if you want to tell me."

Éponine took this as a yes. "Terrible."

Enjolras fished around for something sufficiently sympathetic to say but could only come up with "there's always tomorrow."

A few minutes later Joly came back in the house, his face all aglow.

"Oh, God. You look like Pontmercy," Enjolras groaned. "Things went well, I take it?"

Joly proudly announced the happy news to his friends. Éponine jumped up with a clap of her hands saying that she was happy for him.

To Enjolras alone did Joly tell of Musichetta's "circumstance". Enjolras put a firm hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

"You did well, Joly. I'm proud of you. Most men would not have acted as honorably as you have. They would have been too concerned with familial reputation."

"My parents won't be happy of course," Joly said with a shrug "but they will get over it. I'm only a second son, after all. And I love her, Enjolras. I really do."

Enjolras gave Joly's shoulder a parting pat before making to leave the study.

"I hope you know what it's like someday, Enjolras."

"What?"

"Love."

"I do."

"You do?"

"I love France, and have broken my heart over her. Goodnight, Joly." He waved away anything else Joly might have felt moved to say and quickly left, retreating to his bedroom.

* * *

**A/N: I hope this came out coherent because as I finish this it is 3:51am. It was initially going to be much longer, but 3:51am! Holy cow. Needless to say, half of chapter 26 is already written! :) **

**I looked up a lot of stuff about pre-natal in the 19th century and the sites I looked at said that the study of pre-natal care did not really exist and the medical science, what-have-you, of pregnancy were not taken seriously and most of the natal care was up to a midwife still. So . . . I'm making Joly a bit of an exception in some ways, still he doesn't know a lot. Also, engagement rings were not that common yet, but rings as love tokens were. Some examples I found online were gold bands with inscriptions inside.**


	26. Pitié

**A/N: Sorry for all this melodrama, folks, but that's Les Mis. It'll lighten up soon, I promise.**

**Pitié**

The next morning, after breakfast, Éponine began her toilette on her own. She had asked Joséphine to show her what to do. As she was putting the last pins in her hair she heard the doorbell ring and the muffled voices of Enjolras and Joly came to her ears. Nothing unusual there. But then she heard a third voice and her heart gave a painful lurch.

Marius was in the house.

She froze at the dressing table, straining to hear their words, but unable to make them out. Then came the sound of the study door closing somewhere belowstairs and the voices became barely audible.

Éponine tiptoed her way out of the room and gingerly leaned over the banister to peer down into the foyer.

The coast was clear.

Quick as a cat and quiet as a mouse Éponine stole down the stairs, not daring to pause at the study door for fear of what she might hear. She stepped out into the street and began to walk. Swiftly.

Had Marius come on account of her? Did he know she lived there? He had burned her letter . . . did he remember the address she had written? She had been careful not to mention who she was living with for Joly and Enjolras' safety, on the off chance the letter was intercepted by the police.

Was he in there telling Joly and Enjolras the horrible things she said? The vicious things she said? Or did he have other business? Curiosity almost made her turn back but she pressed on, still intent on her original mission. Finding a job was now doubly imperative.

If Marius were indeed telling her benefactors of her shameful conduct there would be no going back. She would surely be kicked to the curb like the trash she felt, at the moment, she was. She did not deserve their protection.

The bells of Notre Dame rang out nine O'clock. They sounded so close that she started. She turned to see that her feet had taken her to the neighboring _Île de la Cité_ and she was passing the cathedral itself. She sniffed and swiped at a tear as she looked up at its soaring edifice. A breeze hit her in the back of her bare neck and, despite the warmth of the summer morning she shivered. She felt exposed. Without much thought as to why, Éponine entered the cathedral.

The air was heavy with incense. She dipped her fingers into the basin of water built into the archway post and crossed herself, as she observed another worshipper do. She did not often venture inside the ancient sanctuary. The few times she had she was either chased out by a scandalized priest for her lack of proper appearance and disturbing the sensibilities of the upper-class worshippers, or she was ushered into a less-visited side-chapel and told to stay there.

But, that did not happen today. With the appearance of a regular, respectful citizen no one bothered her. If she were not so distracted she would have been amused when a passing priest bid her a pleasant "good morning".

Éponine spent an hour admiring the plethora of radiant colors that streamed from the exquisite clerestory windows; trying not to think. A sense of peace stole over her as she looked at the images and the color. She wandered into a side-chapel and managed a smile at the sight of the vaulted ceiling, painted to resemble the night sky; shimmering gold stars on a field of deep blue. She looked at the altar where there stood a statue of Christ as the Good Shepherd with a lamb tucked securely in his arms.

Éponine doubted God would listen to the prayers of such a one as her, but it was worth a try. She knelt down on the velvet cushion before the altar and rested her clasped hands on the railing. Another wave of peace and a sense of comfort stole over her as did one more feeling: encouragement; although where that came from she did not know.

_Dear Heavenly Father . . . dear Heavenly Father . . . dear Lord . . . Help Monsieur Enjolras . . . help . . . help . . . help me . . . and watch over Azelma . . . and Maman . . . and Pére, if you must._

It was if a weight had been lifted off her chest. Suddenly, despite the incense, Éponine felt as if she could breathe easier. She kept her eyes closed and continued her posture of prayer, reveling in this new, comfortable feeling.

But, her concentration was soon broken when she felt the cushion shift, indicating that another worshipper had knelt beside her. She ignored the new presence until she heard sobbing. Curiosity moved her to open one eye and peek at her neighbor.

It was a woman. Her face was partially obscured by her bonnet, but Éponine knew immediately who it was and, in her surprise, the name slipped from her lips.

"_Alouette_?"

Cosette gasped and turned so violently she almost fell off the cushion. On recognizing Éponine she shrank back but did not rise.

"Wh—what are you doing here?" She asked, her query punctuated by a hiccup.

"I have a right to be here, same as you."

"Yes, of course—I just did not expect . . ."

"I've been looking for a job, if you must know," Éponine lifted her chin and adjusted her own bonnet.

Cosette blew her nose into a fine lawn handkerchief. "Oh. Have you had any success?" She asked with ridiculous politeness.

"No, I—Why are you crying?" Éponine asked, suddenly alarmed. Cosette scooted further back. Dread settled into Éponine's stomach. "Has something happened to Marius?" Could something have possibly happened between the time she left the townhouse to her arrival at the cathedral? What would the Lark have to cry about, if not that?

"No! No . . ." Cosette shook her head vehemently, tears once more making their way down her porcelain face. "The engagement . . . is broken."

"What?" Éponine practically shrieked in shock, earning a few disapproving glances from other visitors. "Did Marius cry off?"

"No!" Cosette shook her head again. "I did."

"_You?_"

Cosette nodded mournfully. "I spoke with Papa about what you said that night and . . . and he . . . confirmed it, albeit reluctantly, and only after much pestering. But, he would not tell me much more about it. I wrote Marius a letter, relating to him what Papa told me, informing him that under such circumstances I could not possibly marry him. I could not bear it! I will not bring such a taint to his name! He deserves someone better."

Toussaint, Cosette's maidservant, was standing in the shadows close by murmuring "my poor mistress" repeatedly and dabbing her eyes.

Éponine's jaw had dropped open as she processed Cosette's torrent of distress. She was taken aback at this display of sacrifice. Cosette, who had every chance of happiness in her grasp, gave it up. Éponine had had no chance then, and in resignation and love had given her all. For Cosette to give up happiness once it was already in her grasp . . .

Éponine shut her gaping mouth with a snap; never mind that her foolish words of days ago were the cause of this situation, Éponine had not gone through despair and death for Cosette to break Marius' heart! A fire kindled behind her eyes as she glared at Cosette, who now began to shrink back in earnest. Éponine looked like a panther ready to spring.

"You little idiot," she said, her voice dangerously low.

. . . . . .

Enjolras and Joly sat in the parlor in stunned silence as Marius finished his tale of Éponine's cruel behavior and the unfortunately tragic truth of it all. He had come to them in a desperate search for Cosette. After he had received her letter he had sat for hours in a chair, doing nothing, saying nothing. Until he finally realized that what it said did not matter.

When he reached 55 Rue Plumet he found it empty. He was not aware of Valjean's second home on the _Rue de L'Homme Arme. _In his frantic search he remembered Joly's card and in desperation he turned to his friend in the odd chance that he might know her whereabouts. His surprise and pleasure at seeing Enjolras alive and well did distract him momentarily, but, once he got used to the idea he was back to lamenting Cosette's loss.

"I cannot live without Cosette!"

"I . . . I can't believe that Éponine said that . . ." Joly murmured, ignoring Marius' recent ejaculation. Enjorlas paced the parlor floor. He did not know what to say, but he knew what he felt: anger, confusion, disappointment. The related incident served as a rude reminder that she was just like every other female he ever encountered: completely incapable of reigning in her emotions!

Completely opposite of him.

But . . . perhaps . . . it was unfair to hold her to a standard that he himself strove towards. He now realized that over the course of their acquaintance it had been her apparent-to-all emotions that had caused him to unconsciously give her undue notice. Her love had motivated her against all cold logic to selflessly continue to help Pontmercy win Cosette at the cost of her own happiness and nearly her life . . .

"And now Cosette has broken the engagement for fear of tainting my good name, or some such rot! Oh, Cosette, where are you?"

Enjolras rolled his eyes. He had not missed Pontmercy's melodrama.

Suddenly, a cacophony of female voices filtered through the closed door and before anyone could react, it burst open.

Éponine, her bonnet askew, her eyes ablaze, came storming in, dragging a weeping Cosette behind her.

"Oh, someone save my mistress! The woman has gone mad!" Toussaint wailed, bringing up the rear of the strange parade.

"Thénardier . . ." Marius began, anger overtaking surprise at his first sight of Éponine, but when he noticed Cosette behind her, it all vanished and he forgot everyone. "Cosette!"

Cosette gasped and, blushing furiously tried to back out of the room, but Éponine slipped behind her and barred her way.

"My last errand, _Monsieur_. Here's your darling Cosette."

Marius rushed forward and folded Cosette in his arms. The fragile young woman did not resist.

"Darling, why did you leave me?"

"I—I'm not worthy of you, Marius . . . Not knowing what I know now of my real history . . ."

Marius cradled Cosette's pale face and whispered fervent assurances to the contrary against her cheek, wet with tears.

Enjolras cleared his throat and pulled his gaze from the couple to Éponine, who was edging her way to the door. On her face was the terribly familiar expression of misery he had come to recognize from the days before the barricade fell and it saddened to him to see its reappearance.

Joly and Enjolras followed Éponine's example and left the lovers to a hopeful reconciliation. Joly retreated to his bedroom and Enjolras was about to go to the study when he noticed that Éponine had not moved from the door. She had her back flush against the oak paneling, listening, her face a rigid mask.

"I told you it's not good to eavesdrop."

Éponine glared up at him, but did not budge.

Enjolras moved toward the study again. He tried to harden his heart against her, to dredge up the anger he felt when he learned of her vindictiveness towards Pontmercy and Cosette nights ago. . . but, he could not; not after witnessing another example of that extraordinary selflessness he had been recently reflecting on. Why did she do it? Her revenge would have been complete had she not brought Cosette to Marius . . .

_The woman is a walking contradiction._

Enjolras turned away from the study door with a sigh and leaned against the wall beside the parlor door, beside Éponine.

"Why are you listening? Do you enjoy torturing yourself?"

Éponine did not answer. She did not seem to hear him.

"Marius told us about that night . . ."

The pained look on Éponine's face deepened a fraction. She heard the deep disapproval in his voice and For some reason the knowledge of disappointing Enjolras was just as painful as Marius' disgust.

"And you've never said foolish things in anger?" Éponine snapped.

Enjolras flinched. "Touché, madam."

"You have no right to judge me, _Monsieur_."

Marius' voice filtered through the door once more: _"Cosette, my love, please do not cry. I don't care who your mother was, what matters is your character and you've proved to me over and over thorough your kindness and virtue alone that you are worthy of my love. I only hope I may be worthy of yours."_

Enjolras heard Éponine's nails scrape against the door as she balled her fists. He frowned in concern. _Why are you doing this to yourself?_

"_Please,"_ he heard Marius say, _"say you'll be my wife again."_

There was a charged pause before Cosette's voice was heard acquiescing.

Éponine's body sagged against the door, as if in sudden relief. She looked exhausted.

"Maybe he'll forgive me now . . ." she murmured. She pushed herself away from the door, past the incredulous Enjolras, and began to ascend the stairs.

Pity filled Enjolras' heart as he watched her. He suddenly wanted to pull her off the stairs and wrap her in his arms, to comfort her, as a friend. That's what he was, wasn't he? The poor girl needed one. How many times can one heart break before it turns to dust?

"_I_ forgive you," Enjolras said quietly.

Éponine paused in her ascent and looked down at him. A ghost of a smile flickered across her lips, but did not reach her eyes.

"Thank you, _Monsieur_."

"'Ponine?"

Marius suddenly appeared at the study door. Cosette was beside him, with her arm tucked securely into his. Éponine stiffened, her knuckles turning white on the banister.

Marius gazed up at Éponine and slowly he raised his hand out to her, an encouraging smile on his face.

As if in a trance Éponine slowly descended the stairs and took the proffered hand.

"I owe you more than I can say. . . for everything . . . my dear friend." Marius said softly.

Éponine choked back a sob.

"Then you forgive me, _Monsieur_?"

"Of course I do, 'Ponine." It did her heart good to hear the nickname pass his lips once again. She bent down and kissed his hand, grateful tears dropping onto it.

"Goodbye, _Monsieur_ Marius."

Once the couple left the house seemed strangely silent after all the commotion.

"I forgive you, too, Éponine!" Joly yelled from atop the stairs. "What?" he said when he saw his friends' bemused stares. "Everyone else was saying it. I was feeling left out."

Enjolras looked down at Éponine to see that a genuine smile had appeared on her face.

"That's better," he said softly.

Éponine glanced up at him and, meeting his warm gaze, blushed slightly.

. . . . . .

**A/N: Oh, gosh! It's 3:39am! I know the description of Notre Dame is a little lame, but I've never been there and can only rely on photographs, which are breathtaking, I can only imagine how mind-blowing being in the actual cathedral would be! I made up the figure of Christ in the side-chapel.**

**And a side comment about Enjolras being attracted to Éponine. He may be discovering he's attracted to her, but, in real life, (and I'm trying to make a stab at realism here, 'cause Enjolras needs it, poor boy), it's a long road between being **_**attracted**_** to someone and actually being **_**in love**_** with them. Important distinction.**

**Since this fic is a mixture of musical and book and maybe a smattering of movie, when it comes to Enjolras' relationship with Marius I lean more towards book with a dash of musical. He considers himself a friend to Marius, although not a close one because he can barely tolerate his Bonapartist leanings and day-dreaminess.**


	27. Circumvention

**A/N: I could not find reference to any specific dishes an upper-class Frenchman of the 19****th**** century would eat, so I tried to pick from French recipes that seemed plausible and made myself obscenely hungry in the process. **

** Another note of importance, Enjolras is now the traditional fair-haired version (a lá book and a lá Aaron Tveit. Oh, Aaron, how you've grown on me!) So, I've gone back and made the required changes. :)**

**Circumvention**

From her window Éponine watched as Marius helped Cosette into the waiting _fiacre_. She kept her eye on the vehicle until it rolled completely out of sight.

With a great sigh Éponine pulled herself away from the window. She was exhausted both mentally and physically. She glanced at her bonnet, which she had tossed on the bed, and considered going out again to resume her search for employment. She ventured a look in the dressing table mirror. Her face was drawn, pins stuck out of her hair every which way, her eyes were red-rimmed and trimmed by dark circles. She was not presentable, and that was putting it nicely. If she had known of Ophelia she would have made that comparison, too.

Éponine stood in the middle of her room, hovering in indecision when a knock came on her door.

"Éponine?"

It was Joly.

"Are you unwell?"

"I'm well." Éponine did not open the door, knowing her appearance would belie her answer.

"Will you be joining us for luncheon?"

Luncheon. Even after a month and a half of living under the same roof as these two upper-class men, she still was not used to the concept of mid-day meals. It was a _bourgeois_ invention. Of course, not too long ago, for her, consistent breakfasts and dinners had also been concepts.

Éponine felt she would like nothing better than to drop on the bed and become insensible to the world, but despite the emotional turmoil, or perhaps because of it, she was terribly hungry.

. . . . . .

Luncheon was a spring salad and _Croque-Madame_, a sandwich filled with ham, mustard, Gruyère cheese and a roux sauce, cooked on a skillet then topped with a fried egg.

This was the kind of food one might typically find in an ordinary bistro. _Madame_ Joly would have turned her nose up at such base fare. But Jean-Baptiste had simple tastes, much to Anatole and Joséphine's relief.

Enjolras glanced up at Éponine as they ate. He was glad to see that melancholy had not stolen her appetite. A good sign.

After Joséphine cleared the plates and brought in the coffee, Anatole brought in a letter.

Joly unfolded it. "It's from Saint Prisca," he announced, squinting at his cousin's spidery script. As his eyes ran over its contents, his brows drew closer and closer together.

"He must be joking!" Joly exclaimed, slapping down the paper.

"What is it?" Enjolras reached across the table and picked it up. His own dark blonde brows mirrored Joly's as he scanned the missive.

"_WHAT?_ I've never read anything so asinine, so illogical! What he wants will not guarantee anything!"

"What is it? What's happened?" Éponine asked, her eyes anxiously darting between the two men.

Joly did not answer. He rested his elbows on the table and buried his fingers in his ginger locks.

"It's nothing for you to be concerned about," Enjolras said, not unkindly but rather matter-of-factly, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

Éponine opened her mouth to argue but then shut it again with a click of her teeth. She was learning not to argue with Enjolras. Circumvention was the way to go.

. . . . . .

Éponine bided her time, waiting for the pair to come out of the study. She did some unnecessary dusting in the foyer, but they were speaking in low tones and she could not make out what they were saying. They were expecting her to be listening and took precautions.

Éponine stuck her tongue out at the closed door.

. . . . . .

When Enjolras and Joly stepped out of the study an hour later Enjolras noticed the parlor door move slightly. He peeked in to see Éponine sitting on the sofa, knitting. Her chocolate brown hair was in slight disarray, as if it had been disturbed by a sudden breeze.

"Were you listening?"

"To what, _Monsieur_?"

Enjolras raised a doubtful brow but said nothing else as he stepped into the room and settled into what had come to be known as his chair: the wingback. He ran his large hands over his angular face in a frustrated, tired gesture.

"The letter . . ." Éponine began.

"Does not concern you," Enjolras said in an overall gentle voice, but with a slight edge in his tone that indicated finality. "Your only concern is finding gainful employment. Do not trouble yourself over worries that are mine alone. It would be a waste of your energy."

"I have done enough worrying and fretting in my life to know how much I can worry and fret before my energy is spent, _Monsieur_."

But Enjolras had stopped listening. On his face was a familiar expression: a furrowed brow and glassy gaze fixed on no particular object told Éponine that the man had descended into a brown study. As she gazed at him she could almost swear she heard the wheels of the marble man's mind turning.

There would be no talking to him now.

Éponine stepped into the foyer and there met Joly who was about to step out of the house for his daily visit with Musichetta.

"_Monsieur_," she suddenly exclaimed, "you've lost a button on your coat!"

"Have I?" Joly said in a preoccupied manner. Where Musichetta was concerned he could be as bad as Marius.

"Yes," Éponine replied, prodding the lacking area of his superfine coat. "I shall mend it for you."

"Oh. Much obliged, Éponine. I don't have time now—"

"No, of course not."

"I'll give it to you this evening, is that alright?"

Éponine nodded.

"Well, then. Off I go. I'll be back before dinner."

Only once the door shut Joly from her sight and no sounds stirred from the parlor, did Éponine dare to pull out the letter she had pick-pocketed, from her dress pocket.

She scrambled up the stairs and into her room to read.

"_July 8__th__, 1832_

_2, Boulevard du l'Montagnes,_

_Saint Prisca, Auvergne_

_Dear Cousin,_

_ I hope this letter finds you well and in good spirits. My wife and I are well, as is little Géorge. I tried that tea you recommended . . ."_

Éponine skimmed through the pleasantries.

_". . . Our last schoolmaster was young and extremely handsome, or so my Marie informed me. The foolish young man, in his vanity, managed to get himself engaged to all eight of our eligible young ladies. It was chaos and many hearts were broken. In light of these events Monsieur le Maire has made the stipulation that our new schoolmaster must be married. "_

Éponine let the letter slip from her fingers and flutter to the ground.

Poor Enjolras.

No wonder he had been so upset.

Another door had been closed on him.

. . . . . .

**A/N: I'm not sure about male teachers but I know it was required for **_**women**_** teachers, up through the 1930's, at least, to be single.**


	28. Une promenade Singulier

**A/N: Hey, sorry for the wait. My poor mother broke her ankle so I've been tending to her needs off and on, fetching ice-packs and ice-cream :) . And on top of that I checked out **_**Our Mutual Friend**_** by Charles Dickens from the library and have had trouble putting it down.**

**Une promenade Singulier**

**(A Singular Stroll)**

Over the next three days Éponine steadfastly continued her quest for employment. But, each day the time spent on her endeavors grew shorter and shorter. Her mind was preoccupied, not with her own problems, but with Enjolras'. Perhaps her prospective employers sensed this preoccupation. Perhaps the staring into space while they asked her questions gave her away. Whatever the reason, all she heard all day long was _no, no, no, no, and if-there's-an-opening-we'll-let-you-know._

Around noon Éponine wandered into the _Marché des Enfants Rouges_ to try her luck at the various stalls. There she ran into Joséphine, shopping to restock the kitchen.

"Any luck, Éponine?" Joséphine asked as she inspected a head of lettuce with the same shrewd eye as that of a Bedouin inspecting a horse.

"No."

"You could always be a domestic and advertise your services in the paper. Master Joly could give you the money for it."

Éponine firmly shook her head. "It's an idea but I'd really rather not borrow any more money from Monsieur Joly if I can help it. I don't want to appear to be sponging off of him."

"It's a little too late for that, dearie," Joséphine said, giving her new dress and reticule a significant look.

Éponine flushed. "These were all surprises! Each time I open the clothes press there seems to be something new! He still insists they're his sister's, but I'm no fool. What am I supposed to do? Say no? That's a nice bit of gratitude! I do intend to pay him back someday, you know, down to the last _sou_!"

Joséphine laughed a little at this.

When they returned to the townhouse Éponine volunteered to wash the dishes while Joséphine began dinner. Anatole was busy with the business of lighting the range.

Éponine frowned when she saw her first two dishes. One still had breakfast on it, the other the midday meal; both had barely been touched.

"Whom do these belong to?" She asked, afraid of the answer.

"_Monsieur_ Enjolras."

Ever since he received the frustrating news from Saint Prisca the dark circles under his eyes had grown deeper. Éponine and Joly could clearly see that he was not sleeping well—well, worse than usual—he had not had a restful sleep since the barricades fell.

"Is there anything left in the larder from breakfast?"

. . . . . .

Éponine gently nudged the slightly ajar study door open with her right hip, while she steadied the tray of cold ham slice, bread and hot coffee on the other.

Enjolras was hunched over the desk and did not look up at her entrance. After running into the proverbial closed door Enjolras finally broke down and began to compose letters to his father's connections in order to force open a window. He also asked Joly to continue writing to Saint Prisca, to assure the mayor that he was not a danger to their young women.

Joly had laughed. _"If they only knew you, this would not be a problem."_

Éponine paused for a moment to study the familiar bent figure before her; his left hand buried deep in his honey colored curls and a pen in his right jerking along the page with such a violence it seemed as if it were a living thing that would fly out of his hand the minute he relaxed his grip.

An unbidden smile tugged at Éponine's lips. For a moment she saw the interior of the Café Musain materialize around him: Combeferre sitting near him in a chair meditating on societal ills, Prouvaire and Coufeyrac having a heated debate about women's rights, Grantaire in a corner shouting unintelligible opinions at no one in particular, and the rest singing snatches of foolish songs. Then Éponine blinked and the vision faded.

Enjolras was alone.

Her heart ached at the forlorn sight.

Enjolras suddenly looked up then. Months ago the eyes that met hers would have been orbs of clear blue flame, kindled by zeal. Now, they were foggy gray pools, rimmed with red.

"_Mademoiselle_? What's wrong?" A look of faint alarm crossed his face.

"Nothing, _Monsieur_," Eponine said with a sniff. She hastily moved to the desk and maneuvered the tray onto a clear patch among the papers. "I brought you something to eat."

"Thank you," Enjolras murmured, returning his attention to his papers, "but I am not hungry."

Éponine put her hands on her hips and assumed her best, scolding older sister tone, the kind she used to use on Gavroche before he left. "You hardly touched your breakfast or luncheon."

"I have been too busy."

"I find, _Monsieur_, that I think a lot clearer when I've had a decent meal."

"That explains a lot in regards to your past conduct."

Éponine bit the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something cutting in return. She was tempted to give that perfect ear of his a vicious tweak. With a huff she instead crossed the room to the settee by the window and deposited herself firmly in it.

Enjolras glanced obliquely at her and cocked a disconcerted eyebrow. He seemed to saying silently _just_ _how long do you plan on sitting there?_

"I'm not going anywhere until you eat something, _Monsieur_."

"You are going to be sitting there a very long time. Do you not have anything better to do?"

"I have lots of things I would rather be doing." Despite her answer Éponine crossed her arms and clenched her jaw, looking quite immovable.

Enjolras sighed in resignation and began to write again.

There was a minute of tense silence in which the only sounds heard were the scratch of Enjolras' pen and the ticking of the clock on the mantle.

"Where's Joly?" The young man asked absently as he paused in his writing to turn the page of one of the books.

"Out."

"Did he say where he was going?"

"No."

"Did he say at what hour he expected to return?"

"No. When are you going to eat, _Monsieur_?"

"I said I am not hungry, _Mademoiselle_."

"Your coffee is getting cold."

"Then please drink it."

"It's for you."

Fifteen minutes painfully dragged by when Éponine suddenly rose from the settee. Enjolras' lips began to curl in triumph but the smile soon froze when he sensed Éponine hovering behind him. He tensed when he felt her breath faintly caress his ear as she unabashedly leaned over his shoulder, an expression of child-like curiousity on her face.

"What are you writing, _Monsieur_?"

Enjolras cleared his throat. "A letter."

"But it's all numbers."

"It is a cipher."

"What's a 'sy . . . fur'?"

Enjolras reluctantly turned in his chair to face her. "A cipher is a code."

"Oh! I know all about codes. _Pére_ and I used them a lot. Like a biscuit."

"I may regret asking this, but what is a biscuit?"

Éponine gave him a concerned look and said slowly, "It's a ball of dough that's baked—"

"I _know_ what a biscuit is. What does it mean in code?"

"Oh! It means a house which was being cased has nothing worth stealing in it."

Enjolras pressed his lips together into a thin line and asked no more questions.

"How does it work, your cipher?"

She was not going to let him be, was she?

"Well," he began, "do you see this book here?"

Éponine nodded that she did.

"This volume of _Selected Political Speeches_ by Cicero contains three hundred and thirty six pages. The very first number here," Enjolras placed a long finger at the beginning of his letter, "indicates which edition the receiver of the letter should use; this is the third edition. After that it is the page number then a number which indicates where on the page is the word."

Éponine nodded again. "But, _Monsieur_, this book isn't even in French."

"It is Latin. My father's former colleague is well versed, as am I, and owns the same edition. He and my father used to communicate like this for their own amusement. _The Amis de l'ABC_ used this method to communicate as well, on occasion.

Éponine's face brightened as she warmed to the subject. "Oh! That's very clever! I'm glad my father never thought of anything like that. I like that very much!"

Enjolras could not help but be charmed by her enthusiasm and a little smile appeared on his marble façade. Éponine moved to stand beside Enjolras, her left hip level with his shoulder. She placed her short index finger on the paper and looked between it and the open book, her pink lips moving as she silently counted.

"'_Cui bono_' . . . What does that mean _Monsiuer_?" Éponine asked, turning to Enjolras whose cheeks were slightly red.

"It means 'who benefits?'," he murmured. He tried to distract himself from the discomfiture of her all too close proximity by taking a tentative sip of his coffee and a bite of the bread.

"Ah!" Éponine suddenly burst out, almost causing Enjolras to choke. "You've eaten something, _Monsieur_, and I'll keep my word."

Enjolras watched her grab a book from the shelf, inspect the spine, then with a nod indicating she was satisfied with her choice, she flounced from the room. Enjolras experienced a vague pang of regret for eating.

. . . . . .

Joly returned around half-past four with Musichetta in tow.

"I do not think I have ever formally introduced you to my fiancée, Enjolras. _Mademoiselle_ Musichetta-Annette Girard, _Monsieur _Grégorie Enjolras."

"_Enchanté_, Mademoiselle," Enjolras murmured, taking the proffered hand and ghosted his lips over it.

Éponine thought back to when Marius introduced her to Enjolras for the first time, and frowned.

"Joly told me of how you opened your home to us at the risk of your own life. I am in your debt."

Musichetta's cheeks went pink. "It was nothing, _Monsieur_."

The dinner party was quite a merry little gathering. Even Enjolras perked up a bit. Musichetta entertained them with amusing anecdotes about life in the _Opéra Le Peletier_. Éponine was especially interested in the descriptions of the dances. Musichetta amicably offered to perform a small demonstration. Of course Joly vehemently protested the idea, but his fiancée waved him off, promising to do only the least exerting of steps.

When she finished Joly ushered her over to a chair and made an anxious examination of her vitals. When he was satisfied that neither she nor the baby were in any danger, they repaired to the parlor for a game of _piquet_. Out of consideration for Éponine's insolvency they gambled for sealing wafers instead of sous and francs.

To end the evening Musichetta offered to sing a little, while Joly accompanied her on the pianoforte. The student doctor tried to coax Éponine into a duet but the girl vehemently protested. "My voice is rough, _Monsieur_. Really, it would be better to hear a dog howl than to hear me sing."

Joly glanced over at Enjolras and was concerned to notice that the vacant stare had returned to his eyes. He was dismayed to see him retreating into his mind again and silently cursed the mayor of Saint Prisca.

. . . . . .

Éponine watched as Joly tenderly handed Musichetta into the waiting _fiacre_ before he followed in after her. The twilight was still bright enough to see inside the carriage before it pulled away: Musichetta's head was leaning on Joly's shoulder, and Joly was pressing a kiss into her chestnut hair. His look of blissful contentment shone in the dark and Éponine's heart ached with envy, still mourning what could not be.

She was not sure how long she had been standing in the doorway before the sound of shuffling in the foyer caused her to turn. There she saw Enjolras donning his hat, pulling the brim down low on his forehead; his hair curled around the brim as if protesting the sudden confinement and trying to push the hat off.

"It is too stuffy in here to think," he murmured when he caught her eye.

"I will go with you, _Monsieur_," Éponine announced, pulling her bonnet off the nail.

"_Mademoiselle_, would you care to take a walk with me?" Enjolras said sardonically, holding his arm out to her.

Éponine gave a crooked smile and sheepishly curled her small fingers around the lean, muscular limb. At the back of her mind she absently observed how well her hand fit in the crook of his arm..

The night air was fresh and a cool breeze from the Seine caressed their faces as they ventured into the dark. The full moon shone bright high overhead, gazing at its reflection in the river. The stars struggled to pierce a few rogue clouds that threatened their view of a drowsy Paris.

Éponine inhaled deeply, enjoying the blessedly temperate weather, but she could feel that Enjolras was tense beside her. She ventured a glance at his face.

A band of moonlight ran along his profile, outlining in silver the golden curls, the furrowed brow, the aquiline nose, the full lips, the strong chin, the waspish cut of his black superfine coat.

Éponine bit her lip in an anxious fashion. She had given much thought to his problem all day and this afternoon a solution had come to her mind. But she was hesitant in sharing it, afraid of how Enjolras might react. She could not bear it if he laughed at her (although she had trouble picturing Enjolras laughing at anything). Worse was the possibility of seeing repulsion on his face. Éponine steeled herself by studying his melancholy expression one more time then . . . took the plunge:

"_Monsieur _. . ."

"Hm?" Enjolras tore his from cobblestones to look down at the petite brunette beside him.

"I know about the Mayor of Saint Prisca's stipulation."

Enjolras stopped dead in his tracks and turned a pair of blazing eyes on her. "_Mademoiselle_, you were eavesdropping again!" he yelled in indignation. "Although how you managed it this time when we spoke so quietly for that very purpose I—"

"I did not eavesdrop, _Monsieur_, honest!" Éponine shouted in return.

Enjolras raised a doubtful brow. "Then how did you know?"

Éponine winced. "I . . . stole the letter from Joly's pocket."

Enjolras spun away from her, breaking her grip on his arm, pacing slightly and planting his hands on his hips in frustration. "_Madam_, will you never be better?" He exclaimed.

"How else am I supposed to know what's going on? You left me no choice, you forced me to it by not telling me!"

"So your behavior is _my_ fault?" He gave a bark of mirthless laughter then murmured something about the illogicality of women. "Why should I tell you what is none of your business in the first place?"

"Because I want to help," Éponine replied meekly.

Enjolras went still and stared at her standing alone with her arms forlornly at her sides, her amber eyes shining with sincerity. Inside his chest Enjolras felt a twinge of remorse. He forced himself to relax his rigid, indignant pose and made his way back to her side.

"Forgive me for snapping at you, _Mademoiselle_," he said, penitently re-offering his arm to her. Éponine took it.

"I just . . ." Enjolras bowed his head, frustration working on his features, " . . . Feel helpless and alone."

Éponine's heart melted with pity. She studied his profile again. His face was full of emotions, and she read the foremost one: shame. She realized how much it took for such a proud, self-contained, man as Enjorlas to show vulnerability to anyone, let alone a humble _gamine_—never mind that he considered her a friend—Éponine had the feeling that in the regular course of things, not even his friends had been privy to his innermost doubts. Thus, this unexpected confession made her happy and sad at the same time.

"You _are_ helpless, _Monsieur_ . . ." Éponine murmured, flashing him a crooked smile, but then instantly sobered and gave his arm a gentle squeeze. "But not alone."

Enjolras looked down at the _gamine_ who had somehow become his friend; a woman who, despite her surreptitious tendencies, he had come to admire and respect. As he gazed into her upturned, heart-shaped face he felt inexplicably encouraged. "Thank you, _Mademoiselle_," he said softly.

"I . . . wasn't finished, _Monsieur_ . . . I have something else to say about the Saint Prisca problem."

Enjolras turned to her with eyebrows raised in curious expectation.

"They'll only accept you if you're married? Correct?"

"Correct."

"Then . . . marry me."

Enjolras stumbled, bringing their progress to a halt again.

"I beg your pardon?" He exclaimed, incredulously.

"Well—not really—we could just pretend . . ."

"No." Enjolras said firmly, his incredulity disappearing and his usual marble grimness reasserting itself. "It would be a gross falsehood."

"And presenting them with a false name isn't?"

A muscle twitched in Enjolras' jaw. "The lesser of two evils, _Mademoiselle_ Thénardier. And I have more reason besides to object. I could not countenance having you live under the same roof as me in that kind of situation, unmarried . . . It would not be right."

Éponine chewed on her lip thoughtfully and they resumed their promenade along the quay.

"Then . . . marry me for real."

Enjolras looked like a breeze could have knocked him over.

"_Mademoiselle_," he began when he at last collected his thoughts, "you do not have to—"

"I want to! I've been racking my little brain day and night trying to think of ways I can repay you for all the kindness you've shown me . . ."

"Joly has been kinder, why not propose to him?" Enjolras said dryly.

Éponine rolled her eyes at his facetiousness. "For obvious reasons. I do intend to pay him back someday, somehow. But right now I see an opportunity to _save_ _you_ like you saved me—and don't say that Joly saved me first, I know that! But, _you_ need to escape now and I _can_ help you! That's what friends do, right? Don't let it ever be said of Éponine Thénardier that she was one to abandon her friends."

"_Mademoiselle_," Enjolras said in all sincerity, "no one could ever say that of you."

Éponine blushed a little.

"But I could not ask such a sacrifice of you, _Mademoiselle_, no matter how sincerely you wish to help. Say we did get married, what if someday down the road you meet someone whom you could love—"

Éponine's turned a pair of burning eyes on the Republican. "_Monsieur_ Marius is the only man I have ever loved or ever will love!" She exclaimed fiercely.

Enjolras held up a hand in mock surrender.

"Very well. But, still, I'm afraid I must reject your proposal."

Éponine shrugged and gave a sigh. "Very well, _Monsieur_. Can't say I didn't try."

Notre Dame struck nine O' clock.

"I think we should head back now," Enjolras said and he steered her about.

When the pair reached the door Éponine suddenly froze, causing Enjolras to stumble slightly.

"_Mademoiselle_, what is it?"

Éponine did not answer but stood stock-still, her eyes wide with horror. On the doorstep sat an apple, eaten down to its core then broken in half.

"I-it's nothing, _Monsieur_."

Enjolras gave her one last doubtful look before opening the door. He kicked the apple core aside, clucking his tongue in disgust. The breeze caught the refuse and Éponine watched as it slowly rolled down the cobblestones, over the quay and into the river.

* * *

**A/N II: Did you know Aaron Tveit is twenty-nine years old? I thought he was much younger and felt a little creepy for crushing on him What a relief it was to find out he's a couple of years older than I. I guess he just has one of those faces/physiques that can pass for 9 years younger, 'cause in the book Enjolras is only twenty (which I did not remember until re-perusing a few passages of The Brick for a refresher/reference).**


	29. Of Nests and Cats

**A/N: Sorry this was a bit long in coming. There was a lot to think about and organize for this chapter and the next, so after I outlined it in my handy-dandy notebook I wrote out the actual chapter in my handy-dandy notebook. I had to take some literary license here in regards to the servant's entrance. I don't know where it could possibly be, so I made up its. I looked at Google maps and the street view (which is awesome, I almost feel like I'm there) and there doesn't seem to be an entrance, but hey, there could have been in the 1830's who knows? In "Upstairs, Downstairs", the servant's entrance was in the front, further down from the main door that had direct access into the "basement" but, there's no evidence of that that I can see for Quai d'Anjou so . . . I made it up. I think a courtyard entrance is more "romantic" anyway.**

**Of Nests and Cats**

"Have her take this once every evening or whenever the pain becomes too hard to bear."

"And this'll make 'Lina better?"

"It will make her more comfortable."

"Bless you, _Monsieur_."

Joly left the dilapidated residence, one of many in the crowded tenements of the Saint-Michel.

He had just concluded a visit to two young women, sisters, who had fallen very low. The one was laid up on a thin, dirty pallet, being slowly pulled out of this life by consumption, and the other had the agonizing task of watching it happen while on her own body Syphilis was beginning to show its mark.

The women could have easily been Éponine and her sister; their ages were the same, at least Joly figured they were. They could have been even younger. The ravages of hard living had obscured and absconded their youth.

Joly shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had to keep his wits about him here. He peeked into his tattered waistcoat pocket for a furtive glance at his watch. He owned one threadbare suit, which he kept packed away in a trunk expressly for these outings of mercy. The costume made him less of a target to wandering eyes and wandering hands.

As the student doctor made his way through the narrow, winding maze that passed for streets in the slums, dodging the occasional hanging article of laundry, he caught a flash of something familiar. A face. A voice.

"I got your message."

"I knew my _fée_ wouldn't fail me."

"What do you want, _Pére_?"

Joly got as close as he dared to where the pair were standing just inside the mouth of an alley. He slumped against the connecting wall and did his best to imitate how Grantaire would look on a Saturday morning.

"I've been informed by a pup," the male voice continued, "that you've landed in a bit of luck."

"Perhaps."

"No p'rapsing about it, my girl, with your nice clothes. You've tired of playing the revolutionary so now you've opened up a new scheme of your own without cutting your own father in on it? I raised you better than that! Loyalty! 'Ponine! Family! We stick together! You cut me in!"

"I've worked hard to get where I am, _Pére_. They trust me. I'll not jeopardize my position for you who's done nothing for me!"

A sharp cracking sound echoed off the narrow brick walls.

"If you won't do it for me," the man's voice growled, "do it for 'Zelma and your _Maman_."

"'Zelma's out?" Éponine's voice sounded frighteningly calm, as if she had not just been slapped. "Can I see her? Where is she?"

"She's on loan right now an' can't be bothered—don't look at me like that, she's doin' more work than you ever did, gallivantin' about with your head in the clouds—but I digress—that's all behind us now. Don't worry about her. She's eating. The man who rents her from me pays well."

"And _Maman_?"

"She got caught in a bungled job late last month. 'Zelma was never as good a lookout as you."

"_Les Madelonettes_?"

"_Saint Lazare_. I only escaped _La Force_ myself by the skin o' my teeth.

"But, now back to business. I told you the bit of news you wanted, now I'll tell you somethin' else: the cats are creeping up on your little nest. The _cognes_ are tightening the noose. What? Haven't heard that your gentleman friend is not just a doctor, but a fugitive of the barricades? Yeah, I know who's been keepin' you. And did you also know there's a reward out for news of any rebel's whereabouts, it says so in the paper. Those friends of yours almost had the king by the scruff of the neck; seems he's not takin' any chances of them tryin' again."

Joly's fist balled against the fabric of his trousers, he willed himself to sit still, to not cry out against the violent indignation rising along with the bile in his throat.

"So my nest's a lost cause and you're giving me the chance to get out without it being a total loss?"

There was silence for almost a minute before Joly heard Éponine speak again.

"Breaking in will bring the police. Come two hours after midnight. They should be asleep by then. I'll let you in."

"Ah! _Mon fée_! It does your old father a power of good to have you back!"

Joly had heard enough and, as quietly as he could, he slipped away, persisting in the pretence of drunkeness by weaving about as he walked. But, once he left the slums he hailed a _fiacre_ and made with all haste toward home.

. . . . . .

The servant's entrance to number eleven, _Quai d'Anjou_ was located in the back of the house, inside a courtyard created and enclosed by its neighbors, accessed by a narrow archway, a block away from number eleven.

Éponine entered this way as often as possible and she did so today.

"Where is _Monsieur_ Joly? Is he here?"

"Upstairs in the study," Joséphine replied as she went about her business, plucking a chicken. "I just took him some tea. Very grim looking he was, too." Joséphine's sharp green eyes snapped up from her work to inspect Éponine. "Master Joly is never grim unless he has a right good reason to be. Has something happened? Judging by your high color something has."

"I don't have the time to tell you just now, I must see _Monsieur_ Joly first!" With that Éponine raced up the stairs and onto the main level.

"Oh, Anatole," Joséphine lamented as the butler returned from the larder, "this is such a queer house!"

. . . . . .

Éponine's heart twinged with anxiety at Joséphine's words. What had _Monsieur _Joly to be upset about? Éponine's mind whirled with all sorts of possible disasters as she burst into the study.

_Whatever it is, it will have to wait._

The moment she entered the study she flattened herself against the wall, away from the eyes of the windows.

Joly had been in the middle of pacing the room when Éponine barged in. Enjolras was leaning against the desk with his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his arms folded tightly against his broad chest; his golden head bowed, apparently in serious contemplation of his boots.

At the sight of Éponine Joly's face contorted with a mixture of fury and sadness, he opened his mouth to speak his outrage but Éponine spoke over him.

"_Monsieur_ Joly, I bring the worst kind of news!"

"Éponine—" He began again, but was again interrupted.

"There's no time, Monsieur! My father has been tailing me and has been watching this house. He's planning to rob you! Or tip the police off that you and _Monsieur_ Enjolras are here, although I don't think he knows about _Monsieur_ Enjolras . . . either way . . . We must think of something. This is terrible!" Éponine leaned her head against the wall. She felt the hot prickle of tears forming behind her eyes as she sensed the full weight of responsibility for this new crisis. She covered her face with her hand so they would not see. "I'm so sorry, _Messieurs_," she said, fighting to keep the tremble out of her voice.

Joly's mouth opened and closed repeatedly like a fish out of water—and was just as breathless. Enjolras' mouth curved briefly before completely raising his head to regard Joly.

"I told you," he murmured to him.

Éponine frowned in confusion.

"I thought . . . I thought . . .you . . . you mean . . . it was all . . . an act?" Joly gasped.

Éponine's frowned deepened. "What?"

"I-I heard you . . . I was in Saint-Michel visiting a patient and I heard you . . ."

Éponine's cheeks turned bright red. "You're a brave man, _Monsieur_ to venture there. How good you are."

"Never mind that, Éponine!" Joly exclaimed, waving his hand as if physically putting away her tangent. "So, you are not plotting against us with your father?"

Éponine slowly blinked at him, her gaze sad and hollow. A tear finally escaped and slid down her cheek. "No, _Monsieur_," she said firmly.

Joly looked stricken.

"I don't blame you for your suspicion, _Monsieur_," Éponine continued in a disconcertingly insipid tone. "I wouldn't trust me either."

"You were so convincing, you see," Joly sputtered, desperately trying to fill the breach.

Éponine's eyes flashed up at him, her eyes hard. "I had to be! I was speaking to my father! And I hope he bought it, for your sakes! . . . He could always tell when I was lying," she finished quietly, her gaze wandering off to no particular spot as she revisited an unpleasant memory. She absently touched her right side where he had once kicked her—it seemed another lifetime ago. In a way it was.

Suddenly, Éponine's gaze moved to Enjolras who was still leaning against the desk.

"Did _you_ think I . . . ?" A lump rose in Éponine's throat and she could not finish.

Enjolras pushed himself off the desk with a sigh. "I told Joly that it was best not to jump to conclusions until we had all the facts of the matter."

A flicker of a grin crossed Éponine's lips. "Spoken like a true lawyer, _Monsieur_."

Enjolras coughed into his fist to hide a foolish smile. "The problem still remains," he continued. "And now we must deliberate how we are to deal with it."

"We should move to a different room," Éponine said. "One with less windows."

Joly reached out toward the curtains "Why? We could just—"

"No!" Éponine yelled and startled Joly into almost tripping. "If someone is watching, suddenly closing the curtains in the middle of the day will raise suspicions."

"The kitchen," Enjolras suggested.

The decision reached, the trio made their way into the foyer, to the narrow staircase at the back of the house.

As Joly descended and Enjolras was about to Éponine reached out and took his hand. As he turned she quickly let it go, as if ashamed of touching him, and clasped her own hand. Perhaps her re-encounter with her past had made her painfully aware again of the very real gap between them, morally and socially. Shame on her, she had forgotten!

Éponine stood, awkwardly looking at the floor then up at him. "Thank you_, Monsieur_ . . . for not jumping to conclusions," she said meekly.

"You told me you were loyal to your friends and I believed you," was Enjolras' simple response. It was then that he noticed the faint purplish blotch forming on her right cheek. He said nothing, but motioned Éponine to descend the stairs ahead of him.

_"I pray that is the last time,"_ he thought to himself. He took a deep breath, willing the sudden surge of overwhelming fury to pass before following his companions.

* * *

**A/N: I just saw in the news that they identified the skeleton in the parking lot in Leicester, England to be King Richard III. That's so mind-blowingly awesome! He wasn't a hunchback but had scoliosis which caused him to stoop. Wow!**


	30. Les chevaux de bois

A/N: Warning: there is some foul language in this chapter because Thénardier, as we all know, does not have the cleanest mouth. So, sorry in advance.

_**Les chevaux de bois**_

**(Wooden Horses)**

_Tap . . . tap, tap, tap, tap, tap._

The heel of Éponine's boot measured out a steady cadence against the stone floor as her right leg nervously bounced. The plan they had developed four hours ago was desperate at best, unfinished at worst, and did not inspire confidence at its best and worst.

Éponine shifted in the chair by the kitchen hearth. As she waited for the knock she prayed. And as she prayed she again felt the familiar warmth from the cathedral, albeit fainter this time as her anxiety tried to push it away. She wracked her brain to think of phrases she had heard churchmen say over the course of her life.

_"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for Thou art with me . . ."_

Her heart slowed to a calmer tempo as the words sunk in. But, she did not have time to ruminate on such things of the Spirit for in the temporal world there came the sound at the door she had been dreading: Three long taps.

Éponine took a deep breath and crossed the kitchen floor slowly. Her legs trembled, causing her to briefly place a hand on the worktable to steady herself before continuing. Soon she was before the door. She took one last deep inhale and as she slowly exhaled her nerves steadied, her legs ceased their trembling. She placed her hand on the cool brass doorknob and twisted it. The door creaked open and three shadows swept into the house.

Éponine moved to close the door after them when she spied a familiar figure in a ragged green gown and tattered bonnet lingering near the entrance of the courtyard.

"'Zelma?"

"She's on lookout. You can talk to 'er after the job's done," Thénardier said as he lit his dark lantern. "Mind your work and let 'er mind 'er's."

It was with heavy regret that Éponine closed the door, keeping her eye on her sister until the last possible moment, before shutting her out.

. . . . . .

"You should start with the parlor, _Pére_. The most valuable items are in there."

"What about the silver? We should start in the dining room," one of the shadows suggested, adjusting the black domino that was too big for his narrow face. "I was reading in the paper just the other day how the value had gone up."

"Shut-up, Babet!" The slender shadow, also known as Montparnasse, snapped.

The assassin was in a foul temper and had been so ever since Éponine had picked his pocket at the _Bassin de l'Arsenal_. It took a lot of convincing on Thénardier's part to keep him from lunging at the girl on sight. Montparnasse was still not fully persuaded of Éponine's return to crime and would have stayed away if not for the opportunity of pinching fashionable clothes without having to bloody his hands; not that such methods ever pricked his conscience, it was just that bloodstains were such a pain to remove.

"This had better be worth my while, 'Ponine . . ." the threadbare young man hissed.

A shiver of dread skittered up Éponine's spine as she caught the glint of his knife in the sliver of light from the dark lantern.

"Be, patient, my darling 'Parnasse," she purred. "Put away your _lingre_. You won't need it here."

As the assembled company made their way along the foyer towards parlor they robbers picked up small items they deemed of value along the way, like one would at a marketplace.

Éponine quietly opened the parlor door and they eagerly rushed in ahead of her.

"The pianoforte is over in the far left corner by the windows. The keys are genuine ivory. The paintings are well-done copies and could be passed for genuine articles, but, it is the twenty-two karat gilded frames that will fetch the highest prices."

Suddenly, a light flared up on the other side of the room. The trio spun around, stumbling into various furnishings and shielding their dazzled eyes.

Enjolras was sitting in the middle of the sofa, Joly by the door, Anatole at the fireplace. All three held pistols in their hands, leveled at their visitors.

"Good evening, _Messieurs_," Enjolras said calmly.

Thénardier blinked. He recognized the doctor, but the commanding blonde in the center he was not sure of, although his features were vaguely familiar. Thénardier's beady eyes snapped back to his daughter. The moment the candle had been lit she had scrambled away out of her father's reach to stand beside the sofa. A growl of rage passed through his clenched yellow teeth.

"You bitch! Why did I trust you? I knew something was up—but, no I had to be all softhearted!"

"No," Éponine spat, "just greedy."

"Slut!"

_Click._

Enjolras had cocked his pistol.

"Take care, _Monsieur_."

A wide mocking smirk split the old man's sallow face. "And what are you going to do, boy? Shoot me? Ha! Discharge that pistol and someone's bound to hear it and bring the cognes down on this house, and I know neither of us want that, now do we? Fugitives from the barricade! I recognize you, too now, I got a watch off of you. We'll leave gladly, after some compensation for our troubles."

"No," Joly said firmly, his own weapon unwavering in its aim on Montparnasse who was twirling his knife with a nonchalant air, but his green eyes were anything but nonchalant. In them was death. And they were fixed on Éponine.

Éponine's eyes, however, were on Enjolras whose stern countenance suddenly melted into grief.

"You are the victims," he said, his voice clear and his sad expression seemed introspective, as if he were speaking more to himself then to them. "You are the painful products of misery. No misery, no theft; no degradation, no crime. We wanted a new society where there wouldn't be any more men like you," the blue fire flickered to life again the more he spoke. "We wanted men like you to be healed . . . we wanted a country so happy that you would become honest again. We wanted to save you. We felt moved to the depths of our insides by your misfortune. We pitied you, we wept over you, we worked for you!"*

"We never asked you to fight for us, _Monsieur_," Thénardier said flatly, unmoved by the speech.

The windows of Enjolras' soul immediately shuttered. The flame disappeared. "What do you want then?" he asked dully.

"Among other things: 'er!" Thénardier jabbed a bony finger at his daughter.

"_Mademoiselle_," Enjolras addressed Éponine but did not take his eyes off her father, "do you want to go with them?"

Éponine shook her head vehemently. "No, _Monsieur_!"

"You can't hide behind them forever, _fée_!" Thénardier sneered.

"I won't. I'm going to make my own way. Honestly."

Thénardier gave a bark of harsh, incredulous laughter. "Honestly? A Thénardier can't be honest; Lying and cheating is second nature to us."

"I've changed."

"No you haven't, you just think you have. No matter how much you try and fight it, you'll always be dragged back in. You've already started. Might as well give up now and come home."

Éponine clenched her jaw tight and she breathed heavily through her nose, resembling a caged predator staring down its jailer. Her face one moment red with shame then ashen the next because she feared his words were true. Nevertheless she fought past the fear and dug her heels in.

"No."

Thénardier choked with fury and switched tactics. "You'll be abandoning your mother and sister."

Éponine winced, but did not rise to the bait. "I'm not responsible for Azlema's decisions and _Maman_ is getting three square meals a day and a roof over her head."

"And who kept a roof over _your_ head all these years? I did! Blood money paid for it and I didn't hear one word of complaint from you then! You owe me!"

"I did your dirty work. I owe you nothing."

Thénardier sputtered and growled. "Not nearly enough! I'll get you for this," he hissed, shaking his cudgel for emphasis.

"Kill me if you like!" Éponine screamed, her eyes unnaturally bright in the dim light. "I'll never go back into that darkness!"

"But darkness always comes, _fée_. Have your dawn for now, but you can't escape midnight. I will dog your every step. No matter where you go, I'll be there. No matter where you hide, I'll find you! The minute you let your guard down The _Patron-Minette_ will catch you and you'll be beggin' for death before the end!"

"Enough!" In one fluid motion Enjolras rose to his feet, his pistol still leveled on Thénardier. "You will keep your filthy tongue between your teeth!"

"What's it to you? She's _my_ daughter and I'll speak to the whore as I please!"

"I _will not_ tolerate such unmitigated abuse of a fellow citizen of France and a friend, regardless of your relationship with her."

Thénardier leered. "Ah, so she's a _friend_, is she? I see."

"_Please _let me shoot him, Enjolras," Joly begged, his face almost purple with fury, his finger twitching on the trigger. Enjolras checked him by slowly raising his free hand, palm up, before returning his attention to Thénardier.

"I do not appreciate the insinuation, _Monsieur_. You are the most unnatural parent I have ever had the misfortune to meet," he continued, "And I am beginning to understand why things are the way they are . . .This is your last warning, _Monsieur_."

"We've been over this," Thénardier said with a sigh, quickly getting over his shock, his tone like that of a man dealing with a simple child, "you'll be giving yourselves away to the police if you dare shoot. So you won't dare."

Babet had been unnaturally quiet during the interview thus far. He had been staring hard at Enjolras, trying to place where he had seen him before. He hated not remembering things; so he stared and he thought, he thought and he stared. He studied the grim face, pale with rage, the eyes blazing blue. Then in a frightening flash it burst on him and a cry of dismay sprang from his chapped lips.

"It's him! It's him!" Babet pointed a shaking finger at Enjolras. "He's the crazy man I told you about, the one who killed Claquesous!"

Thénardier took a startled step back, his face turning white.

"Are you sure?" Asked Montparnasse, looking away from Éponine to Enjolras.

"I'd never forget that face!"

All eyes were riveted on Enjolras now. Joly was the only one who was not surprised, since he had witnessed the incident himself.

Babet poured into a brief summary of how he and Claquesous—also of the _Patron-Minette_—had joined the émute of June 5th. How, in view of all the members of the barricade, Claquesous had demanded entry into a house to use as a sniper's perch. When the porter refused him, the brigand shot him with his musket.

" . . .This boy grabbed Claquesous, a man twice his size, and bent him like a reed! Then with one hand he held him down and shot him through the head," Babet whispered hoarsely, his eyes still fixated on Enjolras..

"He killed an innocent man," Enjolras' quivered with emotion.

"This soft, _bourgeois_ pig held down _the_ Claquesous?" Montparnasse asked, feeling slightly uneasy. "Claquesous who always slipped out of the _cognes_' grip like he was made of water? He shot him?"

Enjolras risked a glance at Éponine. He could see the whites of her eyes glittering in the dark as she opened them wide, shock clearly written on her face . . . and maybe fear.

Enjolras felt an icy spear of dismay stab him through the heart.

"What that man did was horrible," he continued. "And what I did was terrible. He killed, that is why I killed him. I was in charge of the barricade and became law and order to those behind it. I judged and condemned a man to death. To maintain discipline and to further safeguard the innocent I was compelled to do what I did, even though it was abhorrent to me. I was not about have another Reign of Terror start with my barricade."

Enjolras' eyes were the color of ice and just as cold. "I am sorry if he was a friend of yours, but he sealed his fate when he pulled the trigger. Now, I am forced to take up arms again to protect that which I care for. Go now or I will shoot. I do not care if the whole of the Palais du Justice empties itself into this house, you will leave!"

Éponine watched in disbelief as Montparnasse, her father, and Babet slunk, one-by-one, out of the room. Joly and Anatole followed them out and made sure they left the house and the things they had picked up, behind.

Enjolras un-cocked his pistol and laid it on the cushion next to him before collapsing on the sofa with an exhausted sigh. He tilted his head back to rest on the spot between the sofa and the wall. He closed his eyes and covered them with his scarred right hand.

"We must now set up a watch rotation in case they return," he murmured. He heard a whisper of cotton and felt the cushion underneath him shift as Éponine sat down beside him.

"They will not return tonight, Monsieur," she said. "They will go home to lick their wounds. It is tomorrow that's the trouble. I can guarantee that the police will be here then, following a tip-off from my father."

"If what you say is true then Joly and I must seek another shelter before daybreak."

"Where will you go?"

Enjolras spread out the fingers covering his eyes and peered between them at her.

"_Mademoiselle_, I am sorry about—"

"Don't be," she said curtly, her expression hard as stone. "I'm glad he's dead!"

Enjolras lowered his hand. "You shouldn't say that, _Mademoiselle_."

"I know. But, it's how I feel and I can't help that. Claquesous was a . . . monster, Monsieur . . . He . . . he used to watch me—I really don't want to talk about him any more, if it's all the same to you." Éponine shuddered and her eyes took on a vague look as she unwillingly re-visited a particular memory.

A sense of panic rose in her chest. Things were happening so fast and events seemed so tangled, she felt overwhelmed. The loss of adrenaline and the sudden anxiety made her tired and dizzy. She rubbed her eyes. Then she thought of how wonderful Enjolras had looked as he talked down her father, boldly defending her from all the barbs her parent could throw. Acting on an impulse prompted by a grateful heart she briefly touched her head to Enjolras' shoulder. In that small action she felt the warm solidness of his shoulder against her cheek and caught a whiff of sandalwood, a smell she was beginning to have a fondness for, and was suddenly and inexplicably calmed.

Enjolras, on the other hand, felt anything but calm. But, before he could even think of how to react, Éponine pulled her head away.

It was at that moment that Joséphine—who had been guarding the china cabinet in the dining room armed with nothing but a frying pan—decided to creep cautiously into the room, frying pan held aloft.

"Is it over? Are they gone?"

. . . . . .

Notre Dame rang the fourth hour of the morning as Éponine finished packing her valise by the light of a single candle. Joly had generously declared that all the garments and gowns acquired during her stay were hers to keep. She had not bothered to dress for the night but put on a traveling gown, ready to leave as soon as it was light. The valise was full to bursting and she struggled to close it. She had decided to try squeezing the valise between her knees to force the clasps closer together when a quiet knock sounded on her door. Éponine awkwardly extricated herself from the battle to answer the summons.

It was Enjolras. He had shed his coat and cravat but still wore his waistcoat.

"Packing?" He asked.

"Yes," she answered.

Enjolras' gaze darted from the overflowing valise back to Éponine.

"_Monsieur_ Joly has been too generous and I can't seem to close it," Éponine said with a helpless shrug.

"Ah. Allow me."

Enjolras brushed past her and, kneeling beside the valise, pressed the sides together. It took some work, but with a small sound of triumph Éponine was able to squeeze the clasps shut.

"_Merci, Monsieur_."

"Are you afraid of me now?" Enjolras asked, his gaze fixed on the now closed valise.

Éponine blinked for a moment, taken aback by the unexpected question. "If I were afraid of you, Monsieur," she said slowly, "would I have leaned upon your shoulder or let you into my room?"

Enjolras looked up at her, feeling suddenly foolish. "I suppose not."

It took Éponine's quick, discerning mind only a moment to realize the origin of his concern. Her furrowed brow cleared and her expression softened. "You are not a man who relishes violence," she began slowly, considering her words with care. "You don't love it as Claquesous did, or as Montparnasse does. As you said Claquesous sealed his fate the moment he pulled the trigger. I can't say if your choice was right or wrong, but you did it for justice and I respect that!"

Enjolras blinked at her.

"That was very apt, _Mademoiselle_."

"Thank you," Éponine replied, feeling slightly embarrassed.

Enjolras cleared his throat. "The reason I asked was . . ." Éponine watched with fascination as a small bead of sweat trickled down his temple and he seemed to be having an internal struggle of some kind. "Meeting with your father and the gang he's involved with . . . I did not realize the extent of the danger you would be in, staying in Paris."

Éponine opened her mouth, clearly about to say something stubborn like "I can take care of myself" but Enjolras held up a finger, signaling for silence. "I have come to a decision. I need to be accepted by Saint Prisca and you need to be as far away from your father as you can, therefore, for both our sakes . . . if _your_ proposed plan still stands—"

"I haven't changed my mind about helping you, _Monsieur._"

"Please, do not interrupt me. What I was about to say was that I accept your proposal," Enjolras realized his nerves had made his tone brusque and amended it by gently adding, "if you will have me."

* * *

***These lines were altered slightly but mostly taken from an apparently deleted scene from the novel (which someone kindly translated) where Enjolras is approached by some thugs who want to join his barricade for the wrong reasons. And some of the words of Enjolras' explanation of why he killed Claquesous I lifted from "the Brick."**


	31. Papers

**A/N: Happy St. Valentine's Day! (a few hours late) My valentine's gift to you all is a double offering: a new chapter and some fan art by yours truly: **

**Just type in: w-w-w . concetta20 . deviantart . com**

**The chapter might be a bit rough 'cause I just churned it out. I'll polish it up a bit over the weekend as I work on chapter 32. I wanted to write the wedding scene in, but I am still in the middle of the outline for that one. So, hang on! It's coming!**

**Papers**

Joly's head snapped up from the position of being bent over his portmanteau as he packed. He slowly backed up and sank into a chair.

"You're _what_?"

"You heard very well what I said, do not make me repeat it."

An irritatingly triumphant smile spread across Joly's face as he squirmed in his chair with barely contained glee. Enjolras also squirmed, but as a result of opposite feelings.

"I knew it! I knew it!"

"Do not be so childish Joly. It is not a romantic attachment."

Joly's smile faded a little, making Enjolras almost feel guilty. "As I said, it is in both our best interests and it is only for a year, after that we shall annul it and I'll return to Paris. What Éponine decides to do at the end of twelve months is her business."

Joly gave a disappointed pout. "You dampen everything."

"I am not doing this to please you."

Joly's furrowed brow cleared as his mind hit upon another idea that instantly cheered him. "How about we make it a double wedding? Musichetta and I?"

"Do as you like." Enjolras said curtly. He could already feel his stomach wrapping itself in apprehensive knots at the mere concept of what was ahead. Two thoughts assailed him ever since the end of his interview with Éponine: _What am I doing?_ and _Am I doing the right thing?_

Éponine suddenly poked her head in the room. Enjolras did not look up but continued to help Joly pack.

"I informed Anatole and Joséphine of what was going on and figured out what they were to do if the _cognes_ do come. Though, we may have some time before then. _Pére_ won't go to the police as himself, he will have to visit the Changer or send someone else." Éponine bit her lip as she continued to think.

"Thank you, Éponine, are you ready?" Joly asked, a suggestive smile creeping onto his face. Enjolras clenched his jaw. He could feel his face flaming and he was sorely tempted to inflict some sort of injury on the student doctor.

"Enjolras told me about the plan," another blinding beam, " Musichetta and I are going to get married with you."

"Oh?" Éponine blinked, a corner of her mouth twitched. "The more the merrier, I suppose . . ." she trailed off with a shrug.

"So, how do we go about this, Enjolras?" Joly asked as he resumed packing

"We need a copy of your birth certificate and Musichetta's, as well as Éponine's, or at least the Christening record."

"We have that."

"What?" Enjolras and Éponine both exclaimed at the same time. Joly opened a separate valise he had sitting on the end of his bed and handed a sheet of parchment to a nonplussed Éponine.

"When I was out all day, the other day, I went to Montfermeil, visited the local churches and obtained a copy." Joly smirked. "Just in case. I thought she might need it someday . . . maybe a prospective employer would have wanted to see it?" Joly finished lamely, with a sheepish look towards his audience, who, judging by their dubious expressions, did not believe it.

"If I did not know it to be impossible," Enjolras said, narrowing his eyes at his friend and betraying a small grin, "I would say you planned all this."

Joly happily shrugged his shoulders. "Mysterious ways . . ." he murmured.

. . . . . .

The sky was dark blue, heralding the sun's approach as Inspector Martin stepped up to number 11, _Quai d'Anjou_. His informant had been a thin middle-aged man wearing clothes like that of the bourgeoisie but quite worn at the edges as if he had seen some hard times. His quizzing glass had nearly popped out of his eye when he beheld the reward money being counted out before him.

Inspector Martin and twelve officers did not have to wait long for the door to open, which they were heartily glad of. No one wanted to break down a door at that hour of the morning.

To the inspector's vast disappointment and anger, the conciliatory servant who had answered the door informed him in no uncertain terms that the family was not currently in residence, but he was more than welcome to inspect the house. And inspect he did. All the furniture was draped with holland covers and try as he might he could discover no one hiding anywhere nor any hint of where they had gone.

"There's not a speck of dust here," Martin commented as he ran a finger along the china cabinet.

Anatole drew himself up. "Of course not! My wife and I, as the caretakers, see to it that everything stays neat and tidy. That's our job."

Inspector Martin let out a growl. The trail was swiftly going cold.

"That man will pay for this embarrassment when I find him!" He swept out of the house, but not before ordering one of his officers to set a watch on it for a period of three days. He knew he himself would have to pay when he informed his superior of the waste of his time and officers.

. . . . . .

The trio continued their deliberations at Musichetta's flat. They were determined not to stay longer than necessary, just in case Joly's past movements had also been tracked. After some rummaging Musichetta was able to produce her orphan's certificate, issued from the asylum where she had spent the first ten years of her life before entering the _Corps d'Ballet_.

"Joly has his papers," Enjolras said as he paced the small flat. "But, mine . . . they are still in my apartments."

"Well," Musichetta said after a moment of deliberation. "Your grief-stricken fiancée will just have to retrieve them."

Enjolras' brows furrowed and he glanced at Éponine.

"Not her," Musichetta said with a wave of her hand. "Me."

. . . . . .

At six o'clock the landlady of number two, Boulevard Saint Germain was aroused from her slumber by her half-asleep concierge.

Musichetta practically fell into the midde-aged woman's arms.

"Good heavens, girl! Who are you? What do you want?"

"Please," Musichetta sniffed, "this was the residence of Monsieur Grégorie Enjolras?"

"Yes. It is. You said _was_? What has happened? Was he part of those student uprisings, Mademoiselle?"

"Yes!" Musichetta bawled loudly into her handkerchief.

"Oh! Heaven preserve us! Just as I feared" The middle aged landlady, a Madam Chastain and the concierge, Celeste, quickly crossed themselves. "So young! So handsome! What a pity! We were afraid something like that had happened. But, what is your business with us? With him?"

"I was . . . his fiancée!"

The two older women performed a gasping duet. "'Fiancée?'" The concierge recovered from her shock first. "But, I've never seen you before."

Musichetta did not miss a beat. "It was a whirlwind romance and we became engaged only recently."

"It's a bit hard to believe, him being how he was. You remember, Celeste, how he would bid us good evening before going straight to his room all alone. Never any female visitors."

"Oh, yes," Celeste nodded, her graying curls bobbing up and down. "Like a monk he was."

"Oh. Well, we're glad to know that he finally figured out what life was all about before . . ." she trailed off to blow her nose loudly into her own handkerchief. "Now" she asked once she recovered. "What was it you wanted?"

"His family is still recovering from the shock and asked me if I would kindly retrieve his personal belongings."

Madam Chastain exchanged dismayed glances with Celeste. "I'm afraid we sold all of them."

"Sold them!"

"Well, he has been gone for over a month, we figured that he was not coming back . . ."

"So, there's nothing?"

"Nothing. Least . . . well, we did keep his personal papers. No one wanted those and I thought—and it's good I did—that maybe some family member might come by someday and want them. So I tucked them away. Just one moment."

Celeste puttered off. Musichetta stood awkwardly for a moment with Madam Chastain, punctuating the silence with a few blows of the nose.

Madam Chastain looked on her with sympathy and offered her a chair in the sitting room. Soon Celeste returned with a parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.

"Here they are!"

Musichetta restrained herself from leaping at the woman and solemnly, slowly, took the package from her aged hands.

"His family will be most grateful," she said with a watery smile.

Madam Chastain escorted her outside to the waiting _fiacre_.

"He was such a fine young man," the landlady said regretfully.

"Oh, yes," Musichetta agreed with a sigh, "_very_ fine."

"What will you do?" Madam Chastain asked with polite concern.

"After I deliver these to his family I shall enter a convent where I'll devote my life to God but . . . every night I shall dream of his beautiful face and of the love that was never to be!"

Chastain sighed, one more tear slipping from her eye. "Our prayers are with you."

Musichetta grasped the older woman's hand and gave it a squeeze. "Thank you," she said with great gravity, then slipped into the _fiacre_.

"Laid it on a bit thick." Joly grumbled from his dark corner in the carriage. "'Dream of his beautiful face' indeed!"

Musichetta settled herself comfortably next to her lover and, laying a soft lingering kiss on his cheek, murmured. "You're cute when you're jealous."

. . . . . .


	32. Mazes

**A/N: Originally, a later scene takes place in the **_**Jardin du Luxembourg**_** and I threw some non-existent mazes in it, but I found out that the nearby **_**Jardin du Roi**_**, now known as the **_**Jardin des Plantes**_** had mazes in since the 18****th**** century which are still there today. Neato.**

**Mazes**

Timonthée DuBois, oldest teller of the _Banque Palatine_ flexed his fingers, which, despite his advanced years of one and eighty were little touched by the frost of arthritis. He precisely folded his copy of _Le Moniteur_ into a neat rectangle. There seemed to be little news concerning the émeute, now months past. Not that _Monsieur_ DuBois paid much attention to it. There was always an uprising of some sort somewhere in France, her young people seemed more capable in the art of violence then the art of conversation and negotiation. When his wife had informed him of the barricade's fall, the morning of June 6th, the old man had murmured "youth is wasted on the young," before turning over and going back to sleep.

The old teller tucked away his newspaper and lifted the curtain covering his teller's screen, announcing to the world the end of his tea break.

A fair young man approached his window, his blue eyes flickering up at him between the gilded bars. To M. DuBois' vague dismay the young man wished to close his account.

"Under what name is the account registered, _Monsieur_?"

The young man presented his proof of account and identification.

"Enjolras. Adrien-Astor."

M_._ DuBois rose from his chair and pottered over to the vast set of drawers situated six feet behind him. He opened one small drawer labeled "e" and began to sift through the records.

"Enjolras . . . Enjolras . . . Enjolras. Ah, here it is."

He pottered back to the window. On his arrival he glanced up at the young man and on his brief perusal found him to be quite grim.

_How unfortunate in one so young. Youth should be full of joy._

This youth's face was unmarred by laugh lines, it was as smooth and cold as marble, and, with the exception of a twitching in his cheek muscle, just as unmoving.

"'Adrien-Astor Enjolras and Grégorie L. Enjolras', correct?"

The grim young man nodded.

"A joint account . . . is the other account holder with you?"

"No, _Monsieur_. He is dead."

"Oh. My condolences."

The customer nodded his thanks.

"Your final balance stands at 15,000 _francs_. Would you like that all in bills?"

"Yes_, Monsieur_. Thank you."

M. DuBois sent an associate to fetch the amount from the vault and it was not long before the man returned with the bills in a neatly wrapped parcel. M. DuBois watched the customer gingerly take the package and examine its contents before rewrapping it.

"Sign this receipt, please," M. DuBois requested, pushing a piece of paper and pen through the cage's slot. "And here is your copy," he said once the man was done, handing him another slip of paper. "I am sorry you're leaving us, _Monsieur_," he said with all sincerity.

The young man's gray-blue eyes snapped up, but their sudden intensity quickly dimmed to melancholy. For a moment, M. DuBois the teller of the Banque Palatine disappeared and M. DuBois the grandfather of five emerged. He resisted the urge to reach through the slot and pat the fisted hand resting on the marble counter.

"So am I, _Monsieur_," the young man murmured.

. . . . . .

Éponine paced next to a forlorn fountain, in a seemingly forgotten corner of the _Jardin du Roi_. Enjolras had told her to wait there for Joly and Musichetta while he ran an errand. He would not tell her his errand.

_"I need you to be here to meet Joly and Musichetta. If all goes well I should be back within twenty minutes."_

_ "And if not?"_

_ "If not . . . continue on with Joly and Musichetta."_

_ Éponine stepped forward._

_ "Stay," Enjolras said firmly, pointing his index finger at her._

_Now who's speaking to me as if I were a dog?_

She grumbled, but she obeyed. And now she paced.

_Please, bring him back safe._

Just as her mind finished the prayer a small force barreled into her, knocking her slightly off balance.

"Sorry, mam'selle," the little force said before making to move on. Éponine's hand shot out and closed around its collar with a vice-like grip.

"Give it back, Maurice."

"'Ponine! Fancy meeting you here."

"Fancy. Give it back."

Maurice hemmed and hawed until Éponine gave him a little shake, then with a pout he reluctantly handed her reticule back to her.

"I thought your father got a job."

"He did."

"Then why are you still pinching?"

"Nothin' wrong with a little bit o' extra on the side."

Éponine swiftly boxed his ears.

"Your father is an honest man, with honest work!" she shouted over his wailing. "I don't want to see you doing this again, do you hear me, you little villain? Go home and learn your letters and mind your mother!" Maurice miserably bobbed his head. Éponine was about to release him when she suddenly pulled him towards her again.

"And another thing, what did you mean by telling my _Pére_ where I was?"

Maurice slapped his hands over his ears. "He asked me and you didn't tell me I was not to!"

Éponine blew out a frustrated sigh. She kept forgetting that he did not use his head like Gavroche did.

"Do you want to make it up to me, Maurice?"

"Yes, Mam'selle 'Ponine."

Éponine's lips quirked up at the respectful change. "Do you know where my sister is right now?"

"Yes."

"Tell her to come and meet me here. Do it within thirty minutes and there's a whole _franc_ in it for you. And tell _no one_ _else_! Understand?"

"I understand."

"Good."

Éponine let go of the _gamin's_ collar. The effect was like an archer letting go of a bowstring and the child was off like a shot.

. . . . . .

Montparnasse languidly pulled on his trousers, but beneath the half-lidded eyes he was alert as he watched Azelma speak to Maurice at his hovel door.

"I'm going out for a bit, 'Parnasse," Azelma said, adjusting her skirt.

"Don't be too long," he murmured, sending her a seductive smile.

The smile Azelma returned was genuine. His was not.

"Don't worry. I won't. "

. . . . . .

"'Ponine?" Azelma wound cautiously through the boxwood maze, holding her thin shawl closer to her bodice, feeling the stares from the thinning crowd of respectable people.

"Oh, 'Zelma!" Éponine came bounding around a corner and wrapped her arms about Azelma's shoulders, pressing her face into her shoulder. Azelma smiled as she felt how soft Éponine had become and Éponine grimaced as she felt Azelma's sharp shoulder blades dig into her arms. She held her sister out at arms' length to take a better look at her. She was not as thin as she remembered; her client apparently fed her, but not enough to soften the edges.

Éponine slowly let go of her sister and before Azelma could speak she launched into a quick summary of her movements since the fall of the barricade up to her current situation.

" . . . then we're leaving for Auvergne. I want you to come with us Azelma."

Azelma gave her a sad smile. "Thank you, 'Ponine, truly. But, I can't."

"But, you must! . . . Father told me about your business." The last words came out a trifle accusatory as she looked over the faded red taffeta gown that hung awkwardly on Azelma's underdeveloped frame.

Azelma's soft brown eyes grew hard. "You're one to judge?" she countered, giving Éponine's contrasting, respectable appearance a long significant look.

"It was not like that."

"Then what was it like, 'Ponine?" Azelma tilted her head with an expression of mock innocent inquiry.

"Azelma—"

"You know, father finds me really useful now, more useful than you ever were. And even better, 'Parnasse looks at me now that you're not around."

"Oh . . . no! Azelma you musn't—"

"Too late, I already have and it's more than you ever did. Jealous you missed your chance?"

Éponine gazed at her sister, standing there with her feet planted firmly on the ground, her arms folded, her entire figure exuding a coldness that had not been there before. All of a sudden, Éponine realized she no longer knew her sister. Gone was the child who had clung to her skirts, following her wherever she went, the sister who looked to her before every decision, her confidante in the late watches of the night.

Éponine was standing in a patch of sunlight and she ached for the girl in the shadows. She reached out to her, making one more effort to pull her away from the edge of the abyss.

"'Zelma . . . please . . ."

Hesitation flickered in Azelma's eyes, giving Éponine hope, but hope was quickly extinguished when she shook her head and slowly backed away.

Éponine started forward. If she would not come with her voluntarily, by God, she was going to save her by force. Azelma darted around the corner of a boxwood hedge. Éponine made to follow but before she could continue her pursuit she felt herself grasped by the hair and roughly pulled back. She was falling. Her head struck the flagstone path and she knew no more.

. . . . . .

Monsieur Fauchelevent, also known as Jean Valjean, strolled alone in the _Jardin du Roi_. He used to take his daily constitution with Cosette in the _Jardin du Luxembourg _and this garden, but now all her time was spent with her fiancé, which was how it should be. Still, Valjean's right arm felt awkward without her little hand tucked in it. He glanced at the empty air where she used to fall in step beside him, chatting about this in that in her gay little way.

Next to God, she was the only other light in his world.

Perhaps, it was better this way . . . perhaps he had become too dependent on her little candle when he should have been relying on the Pillar of Fire, the real Lamp for his feet . . .

"_I will never leave you, nor forsake you . . ."_

A small feminine cry pulled Jean Valjean from his meditations. He looked up to find himself in an unfamiliar part of the gardens, but more than that, he found the source of the cry.

A slender young man in a black, snugly fitting coat was bent over a woman's crumpled form. It took him only a moment to recognize the young man—no, boy, who had tried to rob, and possibly murder him, months ago. He had pinned down the ruffian and given him a stern lecture on turning from evil and finding honest work. What a pity it seemed he had not taken his advice.

Montparnasse sensed Valjean's presence and paled at being reunited the old man who had once taught him an embarrassing lesson in underestimation. Not wanting to experience another humiliation he jumped up and disappeared into the depths of the maze, as quickly as if he had been no more than a puff of smoke. The bandit was by no means finished, but he knew when it was best to run.

Valjean paid him no heed but ran to the prone woman. She was alive. He gently lifted her head and inspected it. Thankfully there was no blood and a healthy knot was forming at the base of her crown. Gingerly, Valjean lifted her and yelled for assistance as he walked.

. . . . . .

Enjolras prayed that Joly and Musichetta would arrive soon. Carrying all the money he had left in the world made him very uneasy. He walked swiftly towards the maze, making a beeline for where he had left Éponine. He almost reached his destination when two people caught his eye.

An old bourgeois gentleman was sitting on a bench, breaking apart a crust of bread and feeding the pigeons, beside him a thin gamin stood, pleading for that same crust.

"Could you spare just a little, kind _Monsieur_, the pigeons won't mind, surely."

"Leave me alone!" the man exclaimed brusquely. "How did you even get in here?"

Enjolras' fingers turned white as he gripped the valise tighter. In three angry strides he was in front of the gentleman.

"How _dare_ you, _Monsieur_!" He cried.

The old man sputtered. "I-I beg your pardon!" Not many could stand being beneath the full blazing fury of Enjolras' gaze when his ire was up and this old man was no exception.

"You would give your bread to pigeons but not to a starving child? Have you no compassion_, Monsieur_? No pity? It is because of people like you that half the city's population is dying of starvation and disease, but what do you care? You have clothes on your back, money in your pocket, meat in your larder, more pillows than your hoary head needs and, best of all, your precious pigeons to feed!"

Enjolras paused to catch his breath, not feeling any sympathy for the trembling man in front of him. He stuffed his hand into his valise with the intention of giving money to the _gamin_ but when he turned to give it to him, he found the little boy gone. The _gamin_ had been frightened out of wits by Enjolras' display of temper and had fled. He had not heard in the young man's words his defense or the compassion it stemmed from, only the fury.

Enjolras turned back on the _bourgeois_ to find him also gone, although he could still see him hobbling off as fast as his legs and cane could take him.

_Monsieur _Gillenormand would certainly have a tale to tell his grandson when he got home, all about how he narrowly escaped a raving lunatic.

Enjolras sat heavily down on the now vacant bench and held his golden head in his hands. Suddenly, the sound of a man calling for help made him look up. His heart leapt into his throat when he beheld Jean Valjean carrying Éponine's limp body. All thoughts, save one, flew from his head as he launched himself off the bench and raced over to them.

"Good God!"

Valjean looked sharply at Enjolras and recognized him as the former leader of _Les Amis de L'ABC_. "You know her, _Monsieur_?"

"Yes . . . She's a friend of mine."

"Then it's best you take her." Valjean gently deposited Éponine into Enjolras' waiting arms. Valjean observed Enjolras cradle her close to his chest and tuck her head between his chin and his shoulder. The old convict leaned in and said in a low voice, "_Monsieur_, do you need a place to hide temporarily?"

Enjolras' gray-blue eyes snapped up at him and he suddenly realized he had been speaking with the mysterious old man from the barricades.

"You did not betray us at the barricades . . ." he said slowly. "I trusted you then, I trust you now. Lead on."

At the entrance of the _Jardin du Roi_ they ran into Joly and Musichetta just stepping out of a _fiacre_. When they saw Enjolras carrying Éponine they stepped back into the fiacre and bid them to come in. Once they were settled Valjean directed the _fiacre_ to make with all haste to number seven, _Rue de l'Homme Armé_.

. . . . . .

**A/N: Wedding next chapter, I super promise!**


	33. Chip

**A/N: I know I said it would be this chapter, but I made a gift of double chapters, and it's in the next one, so forgive me. :)**

**Chip**

Éponine woke to the uncomfortable sensation of something cold and wet on her forehead. She lifted a languorous hand and tried to push it away.

"Éponine?"

A feminine voice.

The girl opened her eyes to see Cosette's lovely face hovering over her.

"_Alouette_?" Éponine croaked and inwardly groaned. She may have made a peace of sorts with the girl but she was still on her list of people she would rather not see at the moment.

"You _are_ awake!" Cosette's pink lips spread into a smile so bright Éponine felt an urge to shield her eyes. She felt she was undeserving of such a warm reception. The unconditional kindness made her uncomfortable and her subsequent sensation of guilt for not feeling equally kind made her irritable.

Cosette suddenly left her field of vision. Éponine rose and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Fighting a wave of dizziness she took in her surroundings: The setting sun sent its beams through an open casement window, bathing the room in an orange light. Without a doubt the room belonged to Cosette. It was frothy with lace: the canopy of the too soft bed was trimmed with it, the coverlet was bordered and decorated by it, the vanity skirt was all lace, even the table runner on the bureau . . .

It was as if the room was trying too hard to be identified as a girl's room. In truth, Valjean had been responsible for the decoration, sure that it was exactly what a young lady would like. Cosette herself, although fond of lace, found it a bit much, but loved her father too well to say anything else but "it is perfect" and "thank you, dearest Papa" on viewing it for the first time.

It was the most lace Éponine had ever seen in her life, and oddly enough, did like it. She rapturously ran her fingers along the intricately woven threads, inspecting the various designs of each panel.

Suddenly, Joly stepped in the room, followed by Cosette, who was trailed by Touissant.

"Mistress I must protest! It's indecent to let a man into your personal chambers!"

"Oh, pish-posh, Toussaint! He's not a man, he's a physician."

Joly raised his eyebrows. Cosette colored.

"I-I beg your pardon_, Monsieur_, I did not mean it like that, I meant that you are an exception to the rule, being a physician . . ."

Joly chuckled. "Rest easy, _Mademoiselle_, I am not offended. I know what you meant." He turned to Éponine. "How do you feel?"

"A little dizzy at first, but I'm fine now."

Joly instructed her to follow his index finger with her eyes. Satisfied with the results of that test he reached behind her head and gingerly touched the knot there. Éponine hissed in pain.

"You might have to refrain from wearing your hair in a tight bun and be careful with how firmly you tie your bonnet, just for a few days, or at least until the swelling goes down."

"Where is _Monsieur_ Enjolras?"

"He was sitting in a chair by the door," Cosette said, "but when I announced you were awake he went downstairs. I think he's with Papa in the study now."

With a sigh Joly sat back and studied Éponine for a moment longer. "If you feel up to it I propose we return to _Mademoiselle_ Fauchelevent the use of her bedchamber and retire to the sitting room."

. . . . . .

". . . The coroner's inquest ruled it to be suicide."

"Yes, I read that, too" assented Valjean with a calmness that Enjolras found irritating.

"Then, how,_ Monsieur_, did he end up in the Seine with no marks of violence upon him?" Enjolras stopped his pacing to approach Valjean in a manner that had gone heated to aggressive. "_Did_ you betray us?"

Jean Valjean looked him levelly and said firmly, "no."

"Then why did you let him go?" Valjean sighed.

"For reasons which did not concern you or your cause."

Enjolras stared at him for a long time and Valjean stared firmly back. There was no lie in his eyes. The younger man relaxed his stance.

"I believe you. Although I cannot say why."

"Thank you, _Monsieur_."

Enjolras moved away from Jean Valjean and resumed his slow circuit about the room. He opened his mouth to demand further explanation, but when he saw the firm line of his companion's mouth and sudden melancholy manner he relented.

At that moment feminine voices came filtering through the study door. Enjolras listened intently and heard Éponine's voice.

"It seems that your friend is up and about, _Monsieur_."

"Yes," Enjolras replied absently. After a pause he looked back to Valjean. "May I have use of pen and paper, _Monsieur_? I need to write a letter."

Jean Valjean large arm made a sweeping indication of his secretary desk. "It is at your disposal."

Enjolras nodded his thanks and immediately sat down to write. Valjean made for the study door, but paused as he reached for the handle.

"May I be of assistance in any way, _Monsieur_?"

Enjolras turned slightly in the chair to consider Valjean.

"The young woman you rescued, she is my intended. My friend and I are both wishing to be married, tonight if possible, and we are in need of witnesses."

"My daughter and I would be more than happy to oblige you _Monsieur_."

"Thank you, _Monsieur_."

. . . . . .

Musichetta lay dozing on the chaise lounge in the sitting room; the excitement of the past hour had quite exhausted her.

Cosette had taken up the carpet work pillow she had been working on. Éponine entered the room on Joly's arm.

Cosette rose and, favoring her with a gracious smile, insisted that she sit beside her. Éponine uncomfortably complied. She laid her hands in her lap and pinched the linen folds of her gown. After she was situated Joly turned to leave the room, pausing briefly to brush the back of his finger along the curve of Musichetta's cheek before departing.

"Would you like some tea?" Cosette asked.

Now that Éponine thought about it, her mouth was quite dry. "If it's not too much trouble . . ."

"No trouble at all." An almost child-like, teasing grin crossed her pretty lips, "I only asked because I want some, too."

Éponine was surprised to find herself smiling shyly in return.

"Toussaint?"

"Yes, Mistress." The maid-of-all-work rose from her chair and bustled out of the room.

There was only a beat of silence before Cosette spoke up again. "I hope you will accept my sincere congratulations on your impending nuptials," she said with a little shyness of her own.

Éponine blinked for a moment and she felt a flutter in her stomach. _Oh, yes . . . I'm getting married . . . I had forgotten._

"Thank you."

Awkward silence settled on the room. Éponine wished she had sewing or something to occupy her eyes and hands. Fortunately, Cosette had more to say.

"I know I will seem like an impertinent busybody, but I have been wondering . . . what happened to you and your family after I left?"

Éponine had no qualms relating that story. She told her of how her father's debts had caught up with him at last, and his creditors were threatening to involve the local authorities. So, in the dead of night, the Thénardiers pulled up stakes and moved on to the next commune, under a different name and opened another inn. Same thing happened there with the same result: another town, another inn. They commune hopped until they at last reached the heart of Paris, five years ago. By then her father did not have enough capital to open a new inn, thus landing in the position Marius found them in at the Gorbeau house. Cosette asked after Azelma and Madame Thénardier.

"Maman is in prison and Azelma is walking the streets," Éponine said bluntly, her expression and her heart hardening.

_Go ahead_, Alouette, _congratulate yourself on your narrow escape and good fortune. _

She had avoided eye contact with the blonde beside her for the length of the story, but when she finished, out of curiosity, she glanced at her and was startled to see a tear streaming down the porcelain cheek.

"What's wrong?" Éponine demanded, leaning a little away from her.

Cosette held a delicate hand to her lips in an effort to still the trembling and regain control of her composure.

"I am so sorry . . ." she whispered, lowering her hand a little.

Éponine felt shaken at this unexpectedly strong display of sympathy.

_No. Do not make me like you._

"I do not want your pity, _Mademoiselle_," she murmured.

Cosette dabbed her nose with a handkerchief. "There is nothing wrong with pity, Éponine. _You_ may not want it, but I still feel it all the same."

Éponine had nothing to say to that and silently cursed Cosette for making her feel guilty. Again.

"What about Gavroche?" Cosette suddenly asked. "He was such a sweet baby, although I remember him crying a lot because Madame would forget to feed him. How he would suck on my finger, poor thing . . ."

"He died at the barricades."

Cosette sucked in a gasp and before Éponine could react Cosette's arms were about her neck in an embrace.

"Oh!" she cried, "I am so sorry!"

That was it. The undeserved compassion and empathy Cosette lavished upon her had steadily chipped away at the barriers around her heart until, with this last gesture, it finally collapsed. Éponine leaned her forehead into the shoulder of Cosette's silk _gigot_ sleeve and allowed herself to weep.

"I don't understand . . ." she said brokenly, "how can you be so kind?"

Cosette gently took Éponine by the shoulders and held her at arm's length so she could look her in the eye. "Papa raised me in the law of Christ. If not for Him, I would not be as forgiving. He has given me a heart of flesh, so much so that I cry for others at the drop of a hat, which is a little inconvenient sometimes," The blond vision gave a little self-deprecating laugh. "He forgave those who crucified him, how can I not forgive you, especially when life has been so unkind?" With that Cosette gently wiped away Éponine's tears.

Éponine was not sure what to make of this speech. She realized that she did not know the God Cosette was speaking of and found herself wanting to hear more, but was afraid to ask. Cosette gave Éponine a sheepish smile and Éponine returned it.

"Did Toussaint go all the way to China for our tea?" Cosette said with a watery chuckle as she wiped her own eyes.

. . . . . .

In the foyer of number seven Enjolras and Joly stood before Valjean. Musichetta, Éponine and Cosette were upstairs, getting ready.

"Wait an hour or so before you and the women follow us to Arcueil." Enjolras said to Valjean, handing him the address.

"May God keep you and grant you success on your errand."

"Amen," Joly replied, with a wry grin.

"_Amen_," Enjolras murmured and the two men stepped out and into a waiting _fiacre_.

Valjean watched as the carriage rattled down the lane until the night swallowed it up.

. . . . . .

_Monsieur_ Joseph Cousteix, mayor of Arcueil, was roused from his sleep by a message, which had arrived at ten minutes past ten o'clock; the entirety of its being in Latin and the familiar handwriting told him whom it was from before his eyes even reached the signature. With a groan he let his salt-and-pepper head fall back on the pillow.

**A/N: Joseph Cousteix was actually the mayor of Arcueil from 1830-40, but I couldn't find anything else about him so I had to make up his personal life.**


	34. Petit Mari, Petite Femme!

_**Petit Mari, Petite Femme!**_

Half-an-hour after they had departed from Valjean's door Enjolras and Joly sat in the foyer of the mayor's residence, staring at the fading red wallpaper as they anxiously waited to be seen. Enjolras had explained to Joly while en route that the mayor and his father had been close friends since childhood and even went on to study law together at La Sorbonne. Enjolras was banking on the fact that, in consideration of past and present friendships, and Republican sympathies, he may rely on him to maneuver through the legal loopholes and be able to perform the marriage ceremony as expediently as possible.

"_Monsieur l'Maire_ will see you now, _Monsieur_," announced the Mayor's secretary.

Joly remained in his seat while Enjolras rose and stepped into the study.

The mayor was standing by his desk, arms clasped behind him and regarding Enjolras with a worried frown.

"The last time I saw you, Grégoire, was at your father's funeral, you had just begun your first term . . ."

Enjolras nodded mutely.

Cousteix's frown deepened. "You do not look well."

"I have not been sleeping well of late," Enjolras admitted.

"Do you need a place to hide?"

Enjolras' gaze, which had been alternating between his friend and the desk, snapped back to the mayor again.

"Although you made no mention of it in your letter," Cousteix continued, "when I heard about the student revolt . . . you are your father's son and I know the voiceless masses yearning for justice and equality are heard by you just as strongly as they were heard by him. There was no doubt in my heart that you were involved. Am I correct?"

"I am not ashamed to say that you are. I appreciate the offer, however, that is not the reason I came to you. I am pressed by the uncertainty of the time I have. Myself and a friend wish to be married as quickly and as discreetly as possible."

Cousteix's face was brightened by a smile for the first time that night. "You wish to—_You_? Is this the same boy who once declared 'I shall die a bachelor'?"

"When I said that I would die a bachelor I did not think I would live 'til I were married." Enjolras muttered. "All incredulity and jests aside, dear friend, would you be willing to do me this service, at the risk of your position, and perhaps your very life?"

The amusement in Cousteix's hazel eyes faded and darkened into solemnity. "Enjolras, I wake every morning to face the abject poverty of the people I govern and although I do what I can, my help is limited by a wasteful government. You know where my sympathies lie. I will help you if I can."

"Thank you, _Monsieur_."

Cousteix swiftly moved to his desk, flinging open drawers and pulling out papers.

"Since your aim is discretion, I assume you will not be publishing the banns?"

"No, _Monsieur_."

The mayor worried his bottom lip as he paused in thought.

"If it is possible, we would like to be married tonight."

Cousteix looked up with surprise. "_Tonight?_ I had better order a tray of coffee then."

"Will it expedite things if I help you?"

"It may. I could use the eyes of another lawyer."

"Enjolras," Joly poked his head into the mayor's chambers. "They are here."

"The rest of my party," Enjolras informed Cousteix. "Is there an inn nearby where they may wait?"

"Nonsense, they can stay here. I'll have Beaumont show them to the sitting room and if the ladies should need to freshen up they may use my wife's old apartments."

Enjolras looked over Cousteix's face.

"How long has it been?"

"A year next month. I haven't had the heart to sell the furniture yet, so her dressing room is still fully furnished and free for your friends' use."

Enjolras placed a hand on Cousteix's shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Cousteix passed a hand over his eyes. "Enough. Let us get to work."

. . . . . .

Around one o' clock in the morning the pair had figured a way to skirt the law while still making the marriages legal and binding. The mayor had Beaumont summon the rest of the party.

Enjolras took his station by the desk as did Joly, who had been the first to return at the secretary's summons. Joly glanced at his friend and noticed, by the dim light of the candles the sheen of sweat that had developed on his forehead.

"Be strong, Enjolras," Joly whispered, barely keeping the amusement out of his voice.

"Shut up," Enjolras murmured in reply.

The secretary opened the door and the first to enter was Valjean, with Musichetta on his right arm and Éponine on his left.

Enjolras was surprised by the unexpected leap his heart made at the sight of her. She was dressed in a gown of soft gray-lavender, the wide "v" of her bodice wrapped around her tan shoulders in delicate folds, her arms were encased in large gigot sleeves, the smallness of her wrists emphasized by the snug cuffs. Near the bottom of the gown was a embroidered pattern of large peonies bordered by vines, worked in gold thread. His eyes traveled back up to her face. Her dark lustrous hair was half pinned back while majority of it was left to fall over her shoulders in soft waves. Two daises were tucked into the upsweep. Enjolras' gaze finally settled on her face. She was smiling, but it was a strained smile and she was pale, and only Enjolras seemed to notice. He was surprised again by the sudden sinking of his heart.

_She seems so unhappy . . . why is she upset when it was her idea? Do not tell me she is being a martyr for my sake . . . ?_

Éponine's gaze locked with his and he saw a slight furrowing of her eyebrows while a faint plaintive expression crossed her features. Enjolras briefly entertained the idea of declaring everything off and running for it. Everyone would be safer without him after all. . .

Then, the last of the party entered and it was with relief and pity that Enjolras finally realized the reason for Éponine's veiled distress. Cosette entered the room on Marius' arm.

. . . . . .

_"I hope you do not mind my taking the liberty of inviting him. It seemed natural that he should be included in the party. I know he would be cross indeed if he found out he missed the wedding of not one, but two of his friends . . ." Cosette said._

_As if her nerves were not frayed enough, Éponine had to endure the half an hour carriage ride with Marius added to the company. He expressed shock and delight at the news of Éponine wedding his stoic comrade, three or four times in fact, during the trip. Éponine smiled and thanked him as best she could, desperately hoping he would be fooled into thinking her to be sincerely happy. The last thing she wanted to do was to make him uncomfortable, as she knew he would be if he suspected for a moment that the sight of him still caused a painful pricking in her heart. She wanted so badly to put the past behind them and that they could hopefully be, at least for a little while, as they once were._

Éponine looked up at Enjolras, she was so wrapped up in her anxiety that she missed the admiring gleam in his eyes.

_Please help me._

He gave a barely perceptible nod. If the stays would have allowed it, she would have let her body sag in relief.

Enjolras moved forward and took her arm from Valjean and approached the desk where Monsieur Cousteix stood squarely in front of it. Éponine started when suddenly felt his hand on hers. His thumb briefly brushed the back of her palm, and then it was gone. She snuck a glance at him from the corner of her eye. He was not looking at her but had his gaze fixed intently on the mayor.

_All will be well . . ._

Éponine gave his arm a small squeeze in thanks and felt Enjolras stiffen. She took another glance at him and saw a bead of sweat trickle down his temple and into the starched white collar of his shirt.

"Do you all have the required documents?" Mayor Cousteix asked.

Enjolras had already given his and Éponine's, Joly fished out his and Musichetta's from the inside of his coat.

"We are gathered here today in the sight of God and these witnesses to join this man and this woman," the mayor indicated Enjolras and Éponine, "and this man and this woman," Joly and Musichetta, "in the bonds of matrimony. Do you Jean-Baptiste Joly, take Musichetta-Annette Girard to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do."

"Do you Musichetta-Annette Girard take Jean-Baptiste Joly to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do."

_Monsieur_ Cousteix turned his head slowly to Éponine and Enjolras, a barely perceptible smirk crooking up a corner of his mouth.

"And do you Grégoire-Lancelot Enjolras take Éponine-Marguerite Thénardier do be your lawfully wedded wife?"

Enjolras could feel Éponine's eyes boring a hole into the side of his burning face. Out of the corner of his eye he could see her mouthing, "_Lancelot_?" with an incredulous look. He heard a muffled giggle, which sounded like it came from Marius.

"_I_ _do_," he replied through gritted teeth.

"And do you, Éponine-Marguerite Thénarder take Grégoire-Lancelot Enjolras . . ."

A snort, this time from Joly.

" . . . To be your lawfully wedded husband?"

Enjolras risked a quick glance at Éponine. She was no longer laughing.

"I do."

"Then by the power vested in me by His Majesty, King Louis-Phillipe, I pronounce you and you husband and wife."

A cheer rose up from all involved except for Enjolras and Éponine. Marius was the loudest. Musichetta threw her arms about her new husband's neck and wasted no time in bestowing upon him their first married kiss.

Éponine stared up at Enjolras. Even though the rest in the room were chattering away, between them there was an uncomfortable silence.

"Go on, Enjolras," Marius said, "don't be so shy and give your bride a kiss."

Éponine's eyes looked swiftly to Marius then back to Enjolras. Her eyes were pleading.

_Please, do something, Marius is watching . . ._

Enjolras looked down at her, uncertainly. She realized he was waiting for permission.

"It's alright," she whispered.

Enjolras faintly nodded, and, with one swift movement, he leaned down and brushed his lips against her cheek. At his touch a prickle of heat rushed up the back of Éponine's neck. It was a dreadfully familiar feeling, but she attributed it to strained nerves, which were familiar enough. Enjolras quickly pulled away.

"What? That's it?" Marius cried.

"I do not like an audience," Enjolras said firmly over his shoulder, although his voice sounded a little odd to Éponine's ears.

. . . . . .

On the carriage ride back Joly handed Enjolras the itinerary for the trip to Saint Prisca. It listed the posting house where they would find the time-table for the stage coach to Auvergne and the inns he stayed at in each city they would be stopping at.

"Thank you for all your help, Joly."

Joly avoided his friend's gaze. "It was the least I could do," he said quietly. Musichetta laid a sympathetic kiss on his cheek.

"My dear love," she murmured.

They briefly stopped at Valjean's home for their luggage. And there they said their goodbyes to them all. Éponine held Joly tightly, not able to hold back her tears.

"I owe you more than I can say, _Monsieur_," she said, barely able to get the words out.

"Just take good care of him, that's payment enough."

"I will." _For a year, at least_.

Enjolras said his farewells to Joly alone, in the study.

"I know I must go," he began slowly, "but, somehow . . . I feel as if I am abandoning them, Joly. Abandoning the people, abandoning _them_ . . ." He could not even say _L'Amis_. Enjolras' voice rose as he desperately choked off a sob. He covered his mouth and turned away.

"You are not abandoning them. France is more than just Paris. Paris is just a microcosm. France is out there, too and those people need you to continue the work, just as much as the people here do." Joly placed a firm hand on Enjolras' shaking shoulder.

Enjolras took a deep shuddering breath and slowly regained his composure.

"All right?"

"Yes."

"Go wash your face. You do not want to worry Éponine."

Suddenly, Valjean stepped into the room.

"A moment, please, _Monsieur_."

Joly nodded and left the room.

Valjean turned back to the curious Enjolras.

"I was not planning to tell you, but the Holy Spirit urged me not to let you go until I did."

"_Monsieur_?"

"The reason why I did not kill Javert."

. . . . . .

"It is too bad we did not have time to create a _trousseau_ for you," Cosette pouted.

"I could not afford one, anyway," Éponine said after embracing her.

Musichetta stepped forward and hugged her.

"Promise me you will write to tell me the baby's name."

"Of course I will. If it's a boy we'll name it Lancelot, after your husband."

Éponine giggled.

"And let me know when your first comes, won't you? You could name it Guinevere."

Éponine did not laugh at that.

. . . . . .

The final parting with Marius had been painful, but not as painful as Éponine had feared. The once sharp ache had become a dull pain. She embraced him with noticeably lighter heart than she would have in the past. She felt as if a chapter had finally closed and a new one was about to begin, although how long that chapter was to last was anyone's guess.

. . . . . .

The _fiacre _was silent as it rumbled along to the diligence-office located at the intersection of the _Rue de l'Est d'Enfer_ and _Rue du Val de Grâce_ . Enjolras had been replaying over and over in his mind the incredible story related to him by _Monsieur_ Fauchelevent—no, Jean Valjean.

_"I do not understand, Monsieur . . . why?"_

_ "I wanted to show him the same undeserved kindness that was once shown me. By the law of nature I had every right to kill him, just as he had every right to pursue me . . . but by the law of Christ . . . 'Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse them,' and '__. . . Avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord._

"'_Therefore if thine enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink: for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head. Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good__.'__ I had hoped those burning coals would sear his conscience and turn him to the Lord and he would be a more temperate, kind, man, but I see his remorse only led him to the path of Judas . . . and it grieves me." Jean Valjean passed a hand over his eyes. "I am tired."_

Enjolras rubbed a hand over his eyes with a frustrated sigh.

_Nothing makes sense anymore . . ._

"_Monsieur,_ are you feeling unwell?"

Enjolras started. He had been so deep in his thoughts he had forgotten Éponine.

"Forgive me. I am well. I was just thinking."

Éponine was silent for a moment then suddenly a muffled snort of laughter escaped her.

"What is so amusing, _Madame_?"

"When _Monsieur L'Maire_ said your full name . . . how red you were!"

Enjolras felt his cheeks burning and turned his head quickly away from the lantern light shining through the window so his face was obscured in the dark. He would not give her the pleasure of a repeat performance.

Éponine knew he was highly embarrassed and pressed a lace gloved hand to her lips to dam the giggles, but the combination of her unwinding nerves and want of sleep rendered the effort, although valiant, quite futile.


	35. Altercations

**A/N: I've been under the weather for the past week with either bronchitis or just as nasty cold. Either way, I was not cognizant enough to write. I've had further delays just by the amount of research I've been conducting (and finishing **_**Our Mutual Friend**_** which was a nail-biter near the end). More about that research in the footnotes.**

**Just a reminder to those who are reading this who are only familiar with the movie. In the book the barricades are set up in front of the **_**Corinthe**_**, a wine shop/café which is their second headquarters, **_**not**_** the Café Musain, which was where they usually would meet.**

. . . . . .

**Altercations**

A few hours after his reencounter with the dreaded old man Montparnasse made his way to _Rue Saint-Hippolyte_, on which was located the boarding house _Monsieur_ Thénardier had deigned to make his new habitat.

The old villain was sitting in the middle of the dim and smoky room, on a shabby excuse for a cot.

"I've got some news for you, Thénardier," Montparnasse said with a smirk, sidling up to the hunched over figure. The figure did not respond. Montparnasse tilted his head and peered to see what was arresting his comrade's attention:

In his thin callused palm he cradled a brass ring. It had been gilded once, but most of the gold had flaked off now to reveal the cheaper material underneath.

"You won't get much money off that," Montparnasse commented archly.

"Dead," Thénardier mumbled, continuing to stare at the one thing he and _Madame _Thénardier had kept after everything else had been sold.

Montparnasse sighed. Seeing that he would get no use out of this corner, he left.

. . . . . .

When the _fiacre_ passed the _Sorbonne_ Enjolras craned his neck for one last glimpse of its massive dome, a dark silouette against the deep blue of a dawning sky. Éponine could not help but watch him as they also passed the _Place du Pont Saint-Michel_. Enjolras' arms were folded and his face was carefully blank. But his eyes followed the Café Musain as the carriage slowly rolled by it, fisting the fabric of his coat sleeve.

. . . . . .

The little _diligence_-office was dimly illumined by the two gas-lit wall sconces, which flanked the registry desk. Éponine settled herself onto one of the padded benches lining the wall, using her portmanteau as a footrest and using Enjolras' portmanteau as an armrest.

Enjolras perused the timetable. The young man behind the desk yawned and, taking a sip of his coffee, spared Enjolras a bored glance before opening his newspaper.

For two hundred and fifty _francs_, ten_ centimes _Enjolras purchased two _intérieur_ seats for the Limoges bound _diligence_, departing at seven o'clock. He squinted his dry, tired eyes at the bracket clock hanging nearby: fifteen minutes to six.

Seeing as they had some time on their hands, Enjolras thought to get breakfast. He turned to see that Éponine had fallen asleep. Her bonnet was slightly askew as she leaned her head back against the wall.

"_Madame_ . . ."

Éponine did not stir.

Enjolras reached out his hand and gingerly nudged her. Nothing. He glanced at the clerk out of the corner of his eye. His paper did not hold his complete attention.

"Your wife's asleep," he said helpfully.

Enjolras bit back a number of sarcastic replies to settle on a mild "indeed?"

Enjolras contemplated nudging her from his standing position again, but he was sure it would strike his audience—no matter how indifferent—as a rather cold way for a husband to wake his wife. But, Enjolras was not sure how a normal middle-class husband would act in such circumstances.

Acutely aware of the clerk's increasing scrutiny, he made a decision. He bent his head down to hers until the top rim of her bonnet brushed against his hair. He caught a hint of lavender and vanilla and something that was uniquely Éponine, which he could not quite put his finger on. Enjolras, gathered his scattered wits and cleared his throat

"Éponine . . ." He hissed.

"Hm?" Éponine frowned but she did not open her eyes.

"It is unwise to fall asleep in a public place."

"I know a good place when I see one, and this is a good place . . ." she murmured. "Besides," she languidly opened her eyes, a sleepy smirk crossing her face, "I have Lancelot to protect me."

Enjolras was about to glare at her when Éponine's sleepy smirk became a soft smile and all his irritation melted away.

"Not amusing," he muttered.

Éponine yawned. "Are we all set?"

"Yes, we—"

Éponine arched her back and raised her arms slightly to stretch. Enjolras quickly turned away from the sight of the fabric straining against her bodice and in so doing, saw that the gaze of the clerk was also on Éponine, his eyes wide in astonishment and his mouth hanging open.

Enjolras swiftly stepped into his line of sight. "Is there any place where we might find some breakfast at this hour?"

The clerk frowned at him for a moment before answering, "the bakery on the _Rue des Ursulines_."

"Thank you. Are you hungry, _Madame_?"

Without waiting for an answer Enjolras thrust her portmanteau into her arms, grabbed his own, then, taking Éponine by the arm, propelled her through the door.

"'_Madame, Madame, Madame'_ . . ." the clerk mused to himself once they had gone, " . . . must be having a fight . . ."

. . . . . .

The fiacre driver gave Enjolras an incredulous look when he asked to be conveyed such a short distance. But, he shrugged it and nipped a swig from his flask. He did not question things at this hour. _If the _bourgeois_ wants to waste forty-five _sous_, what's it to me?_

Once they were inside the carriage Enjolras turned on Éponine. "Ladies do not stretch like that in public!" He hissed.

"How was I to know?" Éponine grumbled, her mood swiftly souring. She was too tired to be lectured, not that she cared for lecturing even when she was awake.

"It's common sense."

"Not to me!"

"You did not think that the—or the way you— how it . . ." Enjolras trailed off, not knowing how to explain and not really wanting to.

Éponine peered at him and tilted her head.

"I embarrassed you, didn't I?"

Enjolras sighed. "A little," he admitted.

"I'm sorry."

An awkward silence would have followed had they not then arrived at the bakery. Enjolras requested the driver to wait.

Once they were inside, the driver snuck another drink and, making himself comfortable on his perch, closed his eyes.

. . . . . .

Éponine and Enjolras ate their shared _brioche_ in haste, their eyes intermittently scanning the deserted street from the bakery window.

. . . . . .

The moment they climbed back inside the dark interior of the _fiacre_ they knew they were not alone.

A glint of metal and a figure, which had been curled up against the opposite door, lunged at them. The knife blindly lashed out, catching Éponine's bonnet. Enjolras managed to grab the wrist of the hand that held the knife.

The driver's brandy-soaked repose was not at all disturbed by the altercation. In fact, the slight rocking of his vehicle sent him into an even deeper sleep.

Enjolras had not yet completely closed the door when they were assailed. Both he and the attacker tumbled out of the _fiacre_.

Éponine watched helplessly as the two rolled on the pavement, having difficulty in the dim light and confusion distinguishing between Enjolras and the assailant.

Just as she decided to make a blind attempt and pray she did damage to the right man, Enjolras pushed off the assassin. They stumbled away from each other. It was Montparnasse. He saw Éponine out of the corner of his eye and made a lunge for her. With a cry Enjolras shot forward. Montparnasse's knife came down but never made its mark, for Éponine gave her small but heavy portmanteau a mighty swing and caught him upside the head. Montparnasse was turned about by the force of the blow and just as he turned Enjolras met him with a solid punch to the jaw.

Down he went.

Enjolras walked cautiously over to Montparnasse's prone form, nudging him with the toe of his boot. No reaction. He knelt down and felt the pulse on his neck. He was still alive. It was then that the couple bothered to look about them. Their only witnesses were a few prostitutes and drunks who had crept out of their doorway shelters to watch the tussle.

"'Parnasse!" from the shadows a small female figure suddenly darted onto the scene. She knelt by Montparnasse and cradled his head. The boy groaned.

"'Zelma?" Éponine whispered.

"Get out of here, 'Ponine, before someone decides to fetch the _cognes_."

"'Zelma—"

Azelma knew what she was going to ask and vehemently shook her head. "I'm the only one who cares about him in this whole world. He needs me."

"But—"

Azelma rose and kissed Éponine on the cheek. Before Éponine could embrace her sister, she pulled away.

The girl hauled Montparnasse to his feet and putting his right arm over her shoulder, tucked her left arm under his. He was barely cognizant but just able to stand. When she was about to turn away her eyes settled on Enjolras and she paused.

"Are you 'Ponine's husband?"

Enjolras eyes flickered over the girl's face, seeing the similarities, putting together the pieces. "Yes. Grégoire Enjolras. How do you do?"

"Azelma Thénardier. Pleasure to meet you. Take good care of her, okay?"

"I will, _Mademoiselle_."

Azelma giggled, a smile suddenly beautifying her sharp, dirty face. "'_Mademoiselle_'? He's an odd one, 'Ponine! But he's handsome. That evens things out." She turned about, took two steps then paused again. "Oh, by the way" she said over her shoulder, "_Maman's_ dead."

Without another word Azelma shuffled away with her burden. Éponine almost went after her, but Enjolras grabbed her by the hand and led her away.

**A/N #2: Cue music: "As Long as He Needs Me". Azelma suddenly turned into Nancy from Oliver Twist. :) **

**After so much guessing and supposing France just had posting houses like England, I stumble across a free book online called **_**Letters: Descriptive of Public Monuments, Scenery and Manners in France and Spain**_** by Caroline Elizabeth Wilde Cushing, originally published in 1830. What a wealth of information it has been so far! I highly recommend it as a resource, just look it up on Google Books. Yeah, so their equivalent of the stage coach was the large **_**diligence**_** and the sort of equivalent of a posting house was the diligence-office, which from what I read was not an inn like the English posting house. I want to bang my head on the table. It's fascinating and frustrating at the same time. **


	36. Diligence

_**Diligence**_

Éponine poured water into the washbasin and dipped a fresh handkerchief in.

"I hope you got the number of that _omnibus_." The clerk's voice filtered to the back room from his station behind the desk.

"No," Éponine said, "unfortunately not."

"Pity. Can I assist you in any way? Shall I fetch a doctor?"

"No, thank you, _Monsieur_," Enjolras answered. "The injuries are minor—" Enjolras' sentence was chopped by a hiss of pain when Éponine pressed the handkerchief to the gash on his right palm; courtesy of Montparnasse's _lingre_.

When they had been running back to the office and Enjolras had her by the hand, Éponine had assumed the moisture she felt in his grip was perspiration until Enjolras had let go and she saw the blood.

Éponine bade Enjolras to continue holding the handkerchief to the wound as she pulled a small leather case from his portmanteau. Joly, for the maintenance of their old injuries and any others they would most likely accrue on their journey, packed a small kit of general medical supplies: muslin, scissors, lint and a small vial of laudanum with written instructions on its administration.

Éponine rubbed a cake of soap onto a new handkerchief and cleaned the wound. Then she pulled from the case a strip of muslin. After cutting an eight-inch slit on one end of the strip she proceeded to wrap the uncut end around Enjolras' palm.

"My condolences, _Madame_, on the death of your mother." Enjolras said, as he watched her work.

Éponine shrugged, feigning indifference as her sister had done. "We were not very close."

"My mother and I do not share the closest relationship, either . . ."

Éponine paused in her wrapping and blinked at him in surprise. Here was another unexpected moment of vulnerability and freely offered insight into his life.

Enjolras' gaze flicked up to hers for a moment before settling back on his hand.

Éponine stared at him a moment more before mentally shaking herself and going back to work. When she reached the end of the muslin she used the separated pieces to tie a bow, securing the bandage in place.

Enjolras raised his hand and inspected the bandage with an appreciative nod. "Well done."

"Thank you, _Monsieur_. Joly showed me how once, when you were ill."

Éponine pulled out another handkerchief from her portmanteau.

"Now, let's see about this cut on your forehead . . ."

Enjolras stepped back. "It is quite alright, _Madame_, I will do it."

"There is no mirror, _Monsieur_, how will you see where the injuries are?"

Enjolras wanted to say that she could direct him, but then even he knew that bordered on ridiculous.

"Very well," he sighed. Éponine raised the handkerchief to his face but Enjolras moved away again. Éponine was about to protest when she saw that he had actually moved to sit down in the rush-bottomed chair next to the washstand, to better accommodate her.

Éponine inwardly smiled and gently wiped the blood from his forehead. She combed her fingers through his hair to reach the small cut just above his right temple. Enjolras tensed. Éponine paused.

"Am I hurting you?"

"No," his voice was sounding odd again. His gaze flicked up at her.

"Are _you_ hurt at all?" He asked, anxiously scanning her person.

"A little bruised, but nothing more."

They lapsed into silence as Éponine continued wiping the blood from his hair, gingerly pulling at the curls with the handkerchief. Under her ministrations Enjolras eventually began to relax.

He was so tired.

His eyes grew heavy. He sighed and leaned into her touch. Éponine almost jumped. She stood and gazed in surprise at the sight of him so completely unguarded. Was it intentional? Did he trust her that much, or was he so tired that it was involuntarily done? Éponine was sure it was the latter, although a small part of her hoped it was the former. She continued to gaze at him, absently running her fingers through his hair now. There was something of the boy in his tranquil, dozing face. Éponine's heart melted in sympathy.

_Poor man . . . he's so exhausted._

On impulse Éponine bent down and kissed Enjolras' injured brow.

Enjolras started violently, nearly bumping her nose. His head snapped up, his eyes were wide and dark as they latched onto hers.

"Why did you do that?" He demanded sharply.

Éponine stepped back.

"It's . . . just something _Maman_ always used to do whenever we'd get hurt." She quickly busied herself with the repacking of the portmanteau so he would not see the tears pricking at her eyes.

_Maman's dead._

The reality hit her like a punch to the stomach, leaving her shaky and breathless.

Enjolras rose from the chair. "Forgive my reaction. I was startled."

Éponine forced herself to accept the explanation and not entertain the niggling feelings of rejection that rose alongside the pain. "You were asleep, it is only natural," she managed to murmur, not looking up.

"There will be plenty of time to sleep on the _diligence_. I regret to inform you that I only purchased tickets for _interieur_ seats. The _imperiale_ would be much more preferable this time of year. I thought it prudent that we not be on display for all unwanted parties of Paris to see. But, once we get far enough from the city, if they become free, I will exchange them."

Éponine nodded and pressed the back of her hand to her nose to relieve the itch starting there as it threatened to stream. "I am not done, _Monsieur_, your bottom lip is split." She pulled out another handkerchief. But, Enjolras quickly turned over the handkerchief that had been used on his palm and pressed it to his bottom lip.

"There?" He asked.

Éponine nodded, a small frown creasing her forehead. She returned to her attention to the portmanteau.

_Maman is dead._

Enjolras noted her trembling figure and far away look. "_Madame_ . . ."

No response.

"_Madame_ Enjolras." Enjolras felt odd saying that and not be addressing his mother.

Éponine jumped and looked up.

"I can cancel the tickets and we can stay a little longer if need be."

"What for?" She asked hoarsely.

"To attend your mother's funeral."

Éponine leapt to her feet. "And see her body dumped in an unmarked pauper's grave? No!" She closed her eyes as she fought against the tears that rose behind them. "No, _Monsiuer_," she repeated evenly, turning away from him. "I appreciate the offer, all the same . . . but I couldn't bear it . . ." Éponine pressed her injured hand to her mouth to stem the sob threatening to rip free. She swallowed hard, forcing it down. She would not cry in front of him.

Éponine did not realize Enjolras had come up behind her until she felt his hand shyly brush against her palm. Without turning she gripped it.

The clerk poked his head around the corner. "The _diligence_ just pulled in."

Éponine inwardly heaved a sigh of relief. If the clerk had not interrupted when he did she would have broken down, and to see Enjolras uncomfortable in the presence of her unadulterated grief would have been another prick to add to the pain.

. . . . . .

Enjolras paced about, watching the porters as they strapped the luggage to the top of the diligence, keeping a careful eye on his own bags as they did so. Éponine and Enjolras had divided his money among the two portmanteaux and themselves. Éponine had sewn some of the bills into the lining of the portmanteaux; Enjolras kept a large amount in his wallet and Éponine had the smallest portion tucked into the busk pocket of her stays.

Once the porters had finished they clambered down and allowed the passengers on. Those with _interieur_ seats waited for those who had seats in the _imperiale_ and the _coupeé _to alight first.

"Won't the carriage overturn with so much weight on top?" Éponine asked Enjolras, nervously eyeing the towering pile of baggage secured under the tarpaulin.

"No, the wheels are so far apart and the body of the carriage is wide, thus distributing the weight sufficiently well."

The interieur passengers began to board. Enjolras held out his hand to support Éponine as she ascended the coach ladder. She took his proffered hand and met his gaze. His expression was unreadable.

_Here we go._


	37. Orléans

**A/N: I hope this makes sense. I'm working under the influence of two glasses of wine. And another note, there's a certain scene near the end of this chapter that was originally in the previous chapter, but I deleted it five minutes after publishing, but apparently that was not fast enough and it got read. I moved that particular moment to this chapter instead. Just letting some of you know, to avoid confusion.**

* * *

**Orléans**

"_The houses of this description are not among the most genteel or agreeable; and in other respects they are not in the highest esteem, because it is so much the object of the proprietors to economise in the cost of what they set before you, that you are not sure of having food of the best quality"_

_**- Caroline Elizabeth Wilde Cushing, on French restaurants (Letters: Descriptive of Public Monuments, Scenery & Manners in France & Spain, Vol. 1, 1829)**_

"I must compliment you on your lovely hair, _Madame_ LeBlanc," said the man sitting directly across from Éponine. He was a Monsieur Delacroix, a middle-aged barber and wigmaker, traveling with his wife to set up their trade in Orléans. LeBlanc was the alias Joly had chosen for Enjolras, after a long-suffering violin tutor he once had.

"Thank you, _Monsieur_," Éponine managed a thin smile, pressing herself further back into her seat.

"If you are ever inclined to part with any of it . . ."

Éponine would have given up her hair to the wigmakers long ago, if her father would not have beaten her within an inch of her life for ruining her looks for the sake of one _louis d'or._

"Philippe, _really_! You say the most outrageous things sometimes!" Mme. Delacroix gave her husband a chiding tap with her fan upon the paunch that was barely restrained by his fine blue waistcoat.

"I already have a standing order on any locks she should wish to give up, _Monsieur_," Enjolras said smoothly, with a deceptively affable smile.

Éponine raised her eyebrows at the charming man who had suddenly taken the place of the melancholy radical.

A titter came from a young woman seated beside Mme. Delacroix. Her name was Eugenia Petrie and across from her, next to Enjolras, her husband Matthew Petrie. They were American newly-weds from Philadelphia on a tour of the south of France for their honeymoon. Mrs. Petrie's French was prettily spoken. Mr. Petrie's was slightly halting, but well enough to be understood. Enjolras cautiously pressed him for information on the workings of the United States government and was impressed by the man's knowledge on the subject.

"You are very well acquainted with the intricacies of your Republic, _Monsieur_."

"I am a lobbyist for the American Anti-Slavery Society," said Mr. Petrie, lifting his chin slightly higher and fixing Enjolras and the rest of the company with a defensive stare.

"Indeed?" Enjolras' eyebrows rose and a pleased smile graced his handsome face.

Éponine observed Enjolras lean forward in his seat, his blue eyes burning bright with interest. Even in the depths of her sadness and exhaustion, the sight warmed her.

"Oh, dear, he's lost to me now," Mrs. Petrie said to Éponine with a good-natured grin. "Once my husband gets going on a subject that he's particularly passionate about, it's hard to stop him."

Éponine returned the smile shyly. "It's the same with _Mons_—_Mon mari_ . . ."

Mrs. Petrie continued to kindly draw Éponine out by speaking to her often on various subjects, outside of the fate of humanity. This engaged Mme. Delacroix, who had much to say on new sewing techniques, leaving poor M. Delacroix to fend for himself; He was not equipped for jumping into either pool of conversation. So, left with no other recourse, he fell asleep.

. . . . . .

They paused briefly on the wayside of the road, near Étampes, for nuncheon. Mme. Delacroix had a well-stocked hamper, which she shared liberally amongst everyone. The locals who were harvesting grapes had also paused in their labors to allow the travelers to sample the first fruits of the press.

. . . . . .

_The room was very dim, but Enjolras did not need to see it._

_Half by memory he passed slowly through the space. He touched the pear-shaped caricature of Louis-Phillipe Feuilly had scrawled on the wall; his fingers found the large "R" carved into one of the tables by Grantaire. He could almost hear the echoes of their conversations. He moved to the map of Paris nailed to the wall and with his finger traced the routes he had marked out himself of the funeral procession of Lamarque. He leaned his forehead on the parchment and felt the coolness of the plaster bleeding through._

_"I will return, I swear it! I have not abandoned you!" He whispered to the listening dark._

_Enjolras raised a trembling hand to wipe the tears that were suddenly coursing down his face. But, just as he lifted it, he thrust it away, staring with horror as he saw that it was covered in blood. Enjolras then heard a sinister clicking sound that was all too familiar._

_His head snapped up and he saw standing before him a lone National Guardsman, his rifle leveled at his heart._

_"_Vive-_" was all Enjolras managed to say before the gun discharged. He saw the flash, and he felt himself thrust against the wall by the force of the bullet piercing his chest._

Enjolras cried out, his eyes flying open. He was met with the sight of a sea of startled faces. Disoriented, he looked about. His gaze found Éponine's face, her dark-rimmed eyes full of worry. She tucked her small hand into the crook of his arm and gave it a squeeze. The world began to right itself.

"I warned you not to eat those hard-boiled eggs, _chér_, you know how they give you nightmares," she said with a nervous laugh. A slight chuckle spread amongst their companions and the party relaxed.

. . . . . .

They arrived in Orléans around eight o' clock in the evening, just in time for supper.

When they alighted at the _diligence _office, off of _Place de Martroy,_ they were swamped by a bevy of representatives from the local hotels, each trying to shove cards with the names of their various establishments into the hands of the travelers. Added to this group were the beggars who surrounded them on the way out. Éponine kept a wary eye out and her things close to her. She grasped Enjolras's hand as he began to extend twenty sous to a particular beggar who claimed to have sold all his teeth.

"No," Éponine said sharply. "He's faking. Even though it's dark _I_ can see the boot-black. And the way he talks isn't right." She then nodded her head to another beggar. "Her. Give it to her. She's genuine."

Enjolras complied without question and the charlatans of the group, perceiving they were in the presence of an insider, melted away into the shadows. After distributing what they could to those that were left, they continued on their way.

The Delacroix's left the party, anxious to be settled in their new lodgings. The Petrie's stuck close by Enjolras and Éponine. They made inquiries after a place where they could eat and were directed to the restaurant _Maison Bleue_ on _Rue de la Hallebarde_.

Éponine gazed at the statue of Joan of Arc as they passed through the Place de Martroy.

The restaurant was a small, well-furnished hall; twelve tables at most. The hostess sat on a little dais before a desk, surrounded by a railing. She called a waiter over to take them to a table.

Supper consisted of _potage_, salad, capon, asparagus spears and claret. This time Mrs. Petrie led the conversation, regaling them with stories passed down to her by her grandfather who had been in George Washington's army and had even met General Lafayette.

"In fact, we were called on at our lodgings in Paris by General Lafayette himself and had dinner with him at _La Grange_. And even more delightful, he remembered my grandfather. I think that shall be one of my fondest memories of this trip, _Monsieur_. His house was filled with memorabilia of his time in America and he recalled it all to us with such fondness, it touched us deeply, did it not, dear?"

Mr. Petrie nodded. "Indeed. And his library . . ."

Enjolras made a groan of envy.

"His library, _Monsieur_ is a handsome circular room full of beautiful books arranged in open book cases consisting of all the most popular French, English and American works, ancient and modern. He showed us a chair cushion worked by Mrs. Washington herself, prints of Quincy, the home of John Adams, a cane that was fashioned from an apple tree which he had breakfasted under with General Washington on the morning of the battle of . . . oh, I forget which . . . He greatly praised us for our efforts in the abolition of slavery, as well. I cannot begin to tell you how much that meant to me, _Monsieur_!" Mr. Petrie was flush with wine and joy at the memory.

"We had heard and read much of _La Grange_ and the _Marquis_ before coming to France, _Monsieur_," Mrs. Petrie continued, "but reality far exceeded our expectations. Never did we imagine a scene of more unaffected harmony and domestic love, more unbounded kindness and hospitality, than this noble mansion presented to us. And more over, the nobleness of character found in the General himself. It was in the privacy of domestic life, in the presence of his family that we were to see the truth of all accounts. I believe if there exists a perfect or happy man on earth, it is General Lafayette. In every vicissitude of fortune, through praise and censure, through prosperity and adversity, he has been true to himself, to his conscience and to his country."

Enjolras shifted in his seat. He admired and respected Lafayette very much. He had caught glimpses of him from atop the barricades in 1830, passing by on his white horse, inspecting them, encouraging the men, carrying himself as if he were still a youth of two and thirty, and not a wizened veteran of two and seventy. Enjolras had been among those who had cried "_Vive la Fayatte, vive liberté_" until he was hoarse. He had waited in tense anticipation under the windows of the _Place de Gréve_ as the committee deliberated. His heart had sunk to his feet when the _Duc d'Orléans_, Louis-Phillipe stepped out onto the balcony with the tricolor flag in hand, being embraced by Lafayette. The Marquis had been a vocal Republican, and still was. Enjolras did not understand it. How was supporting another monarch being "true to his country"?

"Are you unwell, _Monsieur_?"

Mr. Petrie's inquiry had startled him out of his recollections. Apparently, he had been scowling.

"I am a little fatigued, _Monsieur_."

Enjolras glanced at Éponine. The food on her plate was hardly touched, but the wine in her glass was quite depleted. Her eyes were glassy. Enjolras' heart gave a twinge of worry.

"If you would excuse me for a moment," Enjolras said, rising from the table, "I will be back presently . . ."

"Do not take too long, _Monsieur_, the carriage departs in half an hour."

Éponine spent a few uncomfortable minutes trying to be sociable. But, the restaurant reminded her in many little ways of the inn in Montfermeil. On top of the sadness, she was so tired . . . The doze she had against the wall of the _diligence_ had not been restful, to say the least. Éponine poured herself another glass of claret. She had no famous meetings or interesting family histories to recount—at least, not true or decent ones.

Fortunately Enjolras returned after fifteen minutes and announced that they would be staying the night in Orléans. The Petries were much disappointed by the loss of their company and hoped to run into them again in the future.

. . . . . .

Where the _rue Sainte-Catherine_ met with _rue Jeanne d'Arc_ sat the _Hôtel de la Boule d'Or_. The façade was of gray stone and the architecture had minimal affects about it, rendering it a little gloomy.

Enjolras insisted on carrying the portmanteaux himself, instead of the porter.

"I thought we were going straight to Limoges . . ." Éponine asked once they had been deposited in their room.

"I thought it best . . ." Enjolras trailed off. Éponine nodded her head.

"Thank you, _Monsieur_," She murmured. The burden of the day and its happenings rushed in on her and she sank into the wingback chair that had been provided in one corner of the small room. Tears that she could no longer hold back began to spill freely from her eyes. And the fact that she could not stop them made her cry even harder.

Enjolras stepped quietly out of the room, thinking that she needed to be alone. But, as he took a step away from the door her muffled sobs, which seemed to grow louder, rent his heart. When he was sad he preferred to be left alone to work through it himself, but women . . . He knew from being around his sisters that when women were in emotional turmoil, they needed someone to share the burden . . . When Hèléne, the second eldest, had been slighted by a man at a ball she threw herself into the arms of the eldest, Marie, and wept for a solid twenty minutes. That was an uncomfortable evening.

Enjolras hovered in indecision. He wanted to go to her, so much so, it was almost like a physical ache. But, he felt it was imperative to keep his distance. Suddenly, he thought he heard his name and all resolve melted away.

Enjolras opened the door so hastily it swung wide open, banging against the wall. Éponine jumped up in surprise. In two strides he was before her and gathered her into his arms.

Once Éponine got over the shock she began to cry again, but grateful tears were mixed with the grief. She wrapped her arms around his torso, burying her face in his chest. She felt his body flinch then stiffen. Her fingers dug into the back of his coat, holding onto him as if for dear life, as the tide of anguish and exhaustion washed over her. His embrace was strong and warm. He was not marble after all, but clay, and she seemed to mold perfectly against him.

Enjolras buried his face in her hair, breathing in the lavender. He felt strangely out-of-breath. His head was light. His hands tingled as he rubbed soothing circles into the small of her back.

As her sobs quieted Éponine burrowed her head into the soft spot between his left shoulder blade and his chest. She felt Enjolras wince and heard him hiss sharply.

Éponine jumped back.

"Oh, _Monsieur_! I'm so, so sorry—I forgot—"

"No, it is all right, _Madame_ . . ." Enjolras hastened to reassure her as he massaged the area of the healing bullet wound, which was already exacerbated by his tangle with Montparnasse.

They stood awkwardly for a moment. Éponine wiped her nose with the cuff of her sleeve.

"Thank you, _Monsieur_," she said avoiding his gaze. She was surprised and glad that he had not run from her emotions.

Enjolras nodded, feeling awkward now, not knowing what to do next.

"I . . . I'll leave you to get ready for bed, _Madame_. I'll return in twenty-minutes time. Is that sufficient?"

Éponine's color heightened. "If you could send one of the chamber-maids to help me . . ."

Enjolras quickly nodded. "Of course, _Madame_." And made a hasty retreat. Once the door was closed behind him he leaned heavily against it, breathing deeply. He realized with a dreadful start that he was in a battle and, true to form, he was losing.

* * *

**A/N #2: The American Anti-Slavery Society was founded in 1833. For the sake of this fic, it's a year earlier. Also the lobby for it wasn't organized until 1842. Ignore that. **

**Also, the descriptions of the Petrie's visit with Lafayette were pulled from Elizabeth Cushing's visit with Lafayette. On a slightly funny side note, I was reading the passage about their visit and Mrs. Cushing described a print of a scene in Yorktown, which had the figures of Washington, Lincoln and Layatte, among others in it. I was—wait, what?— what's Lincoln doing in there?! Then I looked up those names together with Yorktown and it wasn't that Lincoln, but **_**Benjamin **_**Lincoln, a major general in the Continental Army, who I think is related to Mrs. Cushing's husband . . . **

**I also got a book from my local bookstore on Lafayette by Brand Whitlock (1929). It came in two volumes and I only found vol. II, but the good news is it covers the the 1830 revolution and onward. Whoohoo! It was fascinating learning the back story to the decisions he made and why he made them.**


	38. L'un vers L'autre

**A/N: Sorry this is so long in coming and short in length, but I've been working on this for a few days because I haven't had a lot of time lately, so I just want to get this out there! Enjoy!**

**. . . . . .**

_**L'un vers L'autre**_

When Enjolras returned to the room Éponine was already lying in bed. The coverlet was pulled up past her shoulders; her back turned to him. Enjolras breathed a sigh of relief. He removed his jacket, waistcoat and boots. He replaced the clothing in his portmanteau and removed what he planned to wear the next day, neatly hanging it on the dressing screen the hotel had provided. Enjolras settled into to the wingback chair, and after shifting around a little found a tolerably comfortable position. He closed his eyes.

"You are going to sleep there, _Monsieur _Enjolras?"

Enjolras flinched in surprise.

Éponine had only been half-asleep and his soft steps had alerted her back into the waking world. She had lain there listening to him move about the room, soon expecting a shift in the mattress. When none came she raised her head and saw him in the chair.

"Good night," Enjolras said firmly.

"You won't get a good night's rest in that thing."

"Go to sleep." Enjolras' voice held a warning tone, as if he were speaking to a child, which only annoyed Éponine.

"There is more than enough room in this bed for two. I appreciate the gesture, _Monsieur_, whatever it is, but I can't sleep knowing that you're cramped up in that chair."

"I assure you, _Madame_, I will be fine."

Éponine grabbed her pillow and climbing out of bed, laid herself out on the cold, tiled floor. The bed was now between them.

Enjolras rose from his chair slightly to better see her. "What in heaven's name are you doing?"

"If you're not going to use the bed, neither will I."

"_Woman_ . . ." Enjolras ground out.

Éponine laced her fingers together and placed them on her stomach with an affected sigh.

There was a long pause before she heard the sound of his bare feet padding towards her. When they stopped she opened her eyes to see Enjolras towering over her, his pale eyes glittering in the dark. Although Éponine was amused he did not look it in the least, in fact he looked rather angry; that wiped the playful smirk from Éponine's face. A feeling of trepidation pulsed through her.

Enjolras began to bend and Éponine's eyes widened.

_Don't you even think of picking me up! Don't you dare!_

Clearly, that was exactly what Enjolras was thinking. But, he suddenly checked himself and straightened. His frown deepened and his hands fidgeted against his thighs. Éponine raised her eyebrows and blinked up at him as she watched the internal struggle with curiousity.

Enjolras gave a growl of frustration. After running a hand down his haggard face he spun on his heel and stomped over to the bed. Éponine heard the mattress ropes creak and suppressed a triumphant grin, for Enjolras' sake. But she need not have bothered because he had turned his back toward her. She also noted how he laid himself as close to the utter edge of the bed as he could without falling off. Instead of being amused also by this observance, she was annoyed.

_I don't see why he's making such a fuss . . ._

Éponine actually slept better with someone beside her. She had grown up sharing a bed with Azelma and sometimes Gavroche. She could not sleep well without the presence of someone. At Joly's townhouse she had lined up the overabundance of pillows beside her, but it had been a poor substitute.

Éponine settled into the bed beside Enjolras. She thought she saw him twitch, but that could have just been the movement of the mattress.

"_Bonne nuit_, _Monsieur_."

There was a pause before Enjolras answered "_bonne nuit_" in return.

. . . . . .

In the middle of the night Éponine woke up. She heard sounds of hitched breathing and pained whimpers coming from beside her. She turned over and found herself face-to-face with Enjolras. He had apparently turned over in his sleep. His left hand was resting on his pillow, near his face, balled up in a fist. There was a slight crease between his blonde brows and a sheen of sweat shone in the moonlight that poured in from the open window. He was having another nightmare.

_Is this why he has such deep dark circles under his eyes? Has it been like this since the barricade? Have all his nights been plagued by nightmares?_

With sympathy in her heart Éponine reached out and brushed back the damp locks from his forehead. Enjolras sucked in a sharp breath and his eyelids fluttered open. A tear slid onto his pillow. His gaze was unfocused and confused.

"You were having another nightmare, _Monsieur_," she murmured.

Enjolras grimaced. "Did I wake you?" His voice was thick with sleep.

"No."

Enjolras sighed and closed his eyes, immediately dropping back into the arms of Morpheus.

Éponine lay there for quite sometime, studying the man beside her. Her eyes moved from his now peaceful face to the hand lying near it. Even when sedentary it exuded strength. Almost of its own accord her hand went out again, this time to gently touch his. Even though he was a _bourgeois_, his hands were not soft like Marius'. She felt the large calluses on his first two fingers, where he would hold his pen.

Then it really hit her. This man was her husband now, even if only for a little while. Surprisingly, the thought was not a bad one. A sense of responsibility and protectiveness swept through her. She lay there going over in her mind all the recent events and she reflected on him:

Enjolras might bear the visage of an angel but he was just as human as she: his temper was a little short and he could be curt and impatient with people who did not agree with him; he had a habit of tactless honesty, which most would call bluntness. He tended to be reserved in his conversation, but that was because he did not speak unless he thought what he had to say was worth saying.

He demonstrated in his character a fortitude that she had not seen in anyone before, and a sense of the world at large: his scope expanded beyond his little life to the issues plaguing his fellow man. He could be a little blinded by and swept up in these concerns, but they were concerns worth having. He was not consumed by self-centered daydreams of romance, unlike she and Marius had been. If Enjolras ever stopped long enough to daydream, it would be of a free France.

She was beginning to figure him out. But, what did confuse her lately was his sudden outburst of sympathy earlier that evening. He, the marble man, had voluntarily embraced her! The Enjolras of a month ago would probably have left her alone to deal with her grief, maybe even justifying his detachment by claiming that it was not his place or business. Why the change?

Éponine felt her eyes begin to get heavy. She had one last thought before succumbing to sleep:

Enjolras was certainly different from Marius and she decided that it was a good thing.

. . . . . .

**A/N: I've been reading a Georgette Heyer mystery novel recently. I highly recommened her to all you fans of mystery, Regency romance and general historical fiction. She was an English woman who wrote from the 1930's to 1960's (?). She's the next best thing to Austen. All her work is highly researched and written in such a beautifully witty and effortless style. Anyway, I mention this because as I was writing I think some of her '30's English wit was coming out in some of the phrasing, which I thought kind of funny. I half expected someone to say, "well, dash it, Éponine, the whole thing's a bit rummy, I must say." :P If wonderful readers are interested in reading her I highly recommend _The Reluctant Widow_, for Regency and _Why Shoot a Butler?_ For mystery.**

**I also have another recommendation: Deanne Gist. She's a contemporary authoress who writes great historical/romance fiction. She really researches her stuff, too and is a big influence on me. I recommend _Maid to Match_.**

**Oh, one last recommendation: anything by Francine Rivers, but especially her Mark of the Lion Series, which mostly follows the story of a Christian Israelite who is sold into slavery to Rome after the sack of Jerusalem.**


	39. Creeping In

******A special thanks goes out to "sylshipman" for proofreading this chapter!**

**. . . . . .**

**Creeping In**

In the crumbling_ Hôtel des Premiers Présidents du Parlement_ Inspector Martin kept his gaze trained on a hairline crack in the cold, tiled floor as the reigning Prefect of Police, Henri Gisquet, heaped verbal abuse upon him. Gisquet had been struck hard by the loss of Javert. Javert had been a policeman with a zealousness to match his own and he had no qualms in expressing how Martin came vastly short of the mark.

A meek knock was somehow heard above the shouting.

"Enter!" the Prefect barked.

A young officer, visibly trembling, stepped into the room.

"There's a gentleman here, seeking an audience with Inspector Martin, concerning the insurrectionists . . ."

"Let him in," Gisquet answered for Martin.

In walked a very young, slender gentleman, dressed as if had just stepped off the pages of _Beau Monde_: he wore a dark brown coat with a severely waspish waist, a bright green cravat, green and cream checked trousers and dark green spats. His wavy locks puffed out on one side underneath his gray top hat. He surveyed the two policemen through a pair of blue-tinted spectacles.

"And you are?" Martin asked archly. He detested dandyism; one glance at the loud trousers and the ache behind his eyes intensified.

"A concerned subject of His Majesty," said the young man, an amiable smile crossing his face. "My name is Aubin-Brys Cariyeau. I read in the paper that you required information on the whereabouts of a certain insurrectionist, a _Monsieur_ Enjolras?"

"That is correct," Martin murmured, giving the stranger a sweeping glance through narrowed eyes. "I'm sure you have also heard of the reward?"

_Monsieur_ Cariyeau pulled out a small enamel snuffbox from inside his coat, and after taking a pinch, he answered them. "I desire no reward, _Messieurs_. Seeing justice done is reward enough."

Gisquet's smile was warm, but his eyes were cold. "A noble sentiment, _Monsieur_. But, you shall be rewarded. I insist."

_Monsieur_ Cariyeau gave a slight bow in acknowledgement of the praise and generosity.

"The man you seek is on his way to Auvergne, via _diligence_, _Monsieur_ Préfet."

"Where in Auvergne?"

The stranger's supercilious smile faltered.

"Auvergne is a large region, _Monsieur_," Gisquet said. "If I am going to alert the local authorities I will need to know which city, which town, which backwoods hamlet he has retreated to; or else we will have a wild goose chase on our hands and a waste of their time—and worse, I will appear a fool."

Monsieur Cariyeau seemed to regain a little of his composure.

"I-I can find out, _Monsieur_."

"See that you do and report back to me."

Monsieur Cariyeau bowed again, lower this time and walked out of the office.

The Prefect sighed and shuffled the papers on his desk. "That was Montparnasse."

Inspector Martin started. "Montparnasse? Of the _Patron-Minette_?"

"Yes. I was surprised to see him here. He usually dresses well, but he outdid himself this time, which means that there is an unfortunate _bourgeois _lying injured or dead somewhere out there."

"Why did you let him go?" Martin cried, making for the door.

"Stop."

Martin stopped immediately and turned a quizzical look on his superior.

"We really do not need him. If what he said is true, that Enjolras is heading to Auvergne, then there is no cause for concern. Auvernge is not a region known for birthing rebels. Let him rot there. As for Montparnasse, he is a bigger catch than this Republican dog that is fleeing with his tail between his legs."

Gisquet laced his long, bony fingers together as a thoughtful expression crossed craggy features. "It is an odd thing, Inspector Martin. It is a dangerous game Montparnasse has begun. Montparnasse is a big fish and he has, seemingly unwitting, given us the line with which we can use to reel him in. He is a cautious criminal, why take the risk? What is in it for him?"

Martin shrugged. "The reward . . . a personal vendetta? Perhaps both."

"Perhaps . . ."

Silence settled in the office for a space of thirty seconds before Gisquet spoke up again.

"Reasons aside, while Montparnasse is keeping tabs on Enjolras, we will be keeping tabs on him; two birds with one stone. We shall make it appear as if his information is vital, keep him within arm's reach. Once he's outlived his usefulness, we'll hang him."

"But, surely he'll disappear before then."

An ugly smirk crossed Gisquet's face and he called out to the young officer stationed outside the door.

"_Oui, Préfet_?"

"Contact the _Sûreté_; tell Vidocq I want to see him."

"_Oui, Préfet_."

. . . . . .

Azelma paced nervously around the _Quai des Orfèvres_. She glanced intermittently at the pocketwatch Pére had given to her, so she would be aware of the time at all times. Now that she was "working" it was a necessity. She hoped Montparnasse would come out of that wretched place soon, she had to be at the _Jardin des Tuileries_ by five o'clock to meet a client. It was now half-past four.

Azelma's shoulders sagged with relief when she saw his lanky figure hastening down the quay steps. She picked up her scarlet skirts and hurried over to him. The moment she was within reach Montparnasse's hand shot out and gripped her thin wrist. Azelma winced in pain.

"You did not tell me Auvergne was a region!" He growled, his slightly slanted, cat-like eyes boring into hers. Azelma shivered with desire and fear.

"I-I did not know! Please, you're hurting me. I swear I did not know!"

Montparnasse always could tell when Azelma was lying and after studying her a moment he knew she had kept nothing back from him. He swooped down and captured her little mouth in a hard kiss that left her gasping for air.

"Your sister you are not," he whispered roughly in her ear. With that he turned on his heel and walked briskly away. Azelma stared forlornly after him, puzzling over his enigmatical comment, trying to decide whether she had just received a compliment or a criticism.

Azelma was torn from her reverie by the bells of Notre-Dame striking five o' clock.

"_Merde_!"

. . . . . .

Éponine started awake. She had been dreaming, but what of she could not remember.

The first sight that greeted her waking eyes was her right arm stretched out on the empty space that had once been occupied by Enjolras. Éponine turned on her back to discover that she was alone in the room. But, on the small end table, at the foot of the bed there was a tray laden with bread, fruit, and coffee.

Éponine groaned as she pushed herself into a sitting position. The effects of long hours in the diligence were now felt in her sore back and neck. She wrapped the coverlet around her. The window was closed but the room was cool. The temperature had unseasonably dropped overnight and into the morning.

Éponine crawled on her knees along the soft mattress until she reached the tray. She fell on her repast with enthusiasm, tickled to be having breakfast in bed. Éponine was struck with surprise at how refreshed she felt, despite her soreness. Her senses were alert and she felt . . . free. She could not describe what she was feeling "free" from, except perhaps her old life. The further she left Paris behind, the more the weight of the past seemed to drop from her shoulders. She felt as if she was on the threshold of something new. A hesitant hope was stirring in her heart and—dare she say it— joy.

When she finished her breakfast she dragged her pormanteau out from under the bed and began to dress.

Enjolras had been downstairs paying the bill. He was now quickly climbing the stairs to fetch their portmanteaux. The diligence would be leaving in twenty minutes.

Enjolras knocked on the door. He hoped Éponine was awake. He did not want to have to wake her. That would involve touching her.

"Come in," he heard her answer with relief, but also an uncomfortable flutter in his stomach.

Enjolras had awoken that morning to find Éponine's arm draped over his side, just above his hip. Alarmed by how comfortable it felt and the subsequent flood of desire that swept through him, he quickly extricated himself and spent the rest of the night in the chair.

Enjolras opened the door. The room appeared empty. He called out.

"Over here," Éponine's slender arm appeared above the dressing screen in the corner.

"The diligence is leaving in eighteen minutes."

"I need a chamber-maid to come and help me with my stays."

"I will see if I can fetch one."

As Éponine waited she smoothed out the creases in the hand-me-down gown from Cosette.

Enjolras was back in less than a minute.

"There's no time," he said breathlessly. "I suppose I will have to assist you."

Éponine kept her back to him and held out the bone bodkin he would need to draw the laces through the eyelets. She felt the heat of self-consciousness creep up the back of her neck as she heard him draw near. But, once she felt his fingers brush hers as he took the bodkin from her hands a different and familiar heat entered in, both surprising and disturbing her. She pushed it aside and gathered her thoughts to direct him in the lacing.

Initially, Enjolras' fingers trembled and one or two times he nearly dropped the bodkin. But, as he listened to her instructions and concentrated on the task, his nerves settled. He pulled at the laces until Éponine declared it tight enough. Once he finished he quickly backed away and retreated to the other side of the screen. When sound of slithering silk reached his ears he made for the door.

"Wait," came Éponine's voice. "The back of my dress needs to be fastened."

_Do you know you are torturing me?_

Enjolras finished this task as quickly as he could.

"Thank you, Monsieur." She then pulled the ribbon she had draped over the dressing screen and began to hastily tie her hair back, there being no time to pin it.

Instead of running away, this time Enjolras surveyed her. Something about the dress she was wearing was not right. It was the same traveling dress she wore the day before, but now he noticed the way the hem pooled excessively on the floor, how the seam between the shoulder and the sleeve was too far down, and the way the cuffs threatened to engulf her knuckles. He knew the hand-me-down to be Cosette's. He had not taken note of it at the time, but now he realized that Cosette was considerably taller than Éponine, a good five inches taller.

Éponine sensed his stare, and her gaze flicked self-consciously between him and the floor as she tied the ribbon.

"What is it?" She asked at last, irritation mounting.

"You're short."

Éponine's face flushed in indignation. "I know that!"

"These cast-offs fit you ill. When we reach Limoges I will purchase you a new set of clothes. "

Éponine's brow cleared and again a flush suffused her cheeks, but this time it was with pleasure.

_Please, do not look at me like that._

Enjolras cleared his throat and backed away. "Make haste, _Madame_," he said brusquely. Éponine's smile faltered.

. . . . . .

The _imperiale_ seats were not taken and Enjolras was able to exchange his tickets, only paying a little extra. He bought all three seats so they could converse freely if need be.

The diligence pulled away and to be out in the cool air was refreshing. Enjolras glanced at Éponine sitting beside him. The breeze pulled at the wisps of hair that framed her face. Her eyes shone as they surveyed the passing countryside.

There was a time in his life when one could have said that Enjolras seemed unaware of a creature called woman.

_How had she done it?_

Enjolras turned his head away and, gazing unseeingly at the scenery, he unconsciously pressed his good hand over his racing heart.

_How did you get in there?_

**A/N: Happy Easter everyone!**

**"But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes we are healed." –Isaiah 53:5**

**"So Christ was sacrificed once to take away the sins of many; and he will appear a second time, not to bear sin, but to bring salvation to those who are waiting for him." –Hebrews 9:28**


	40. Limoges

**A/N: Sorry this update took so long! I've been writing it in my notebook but haven't had time lately to type it out. Also a note to the "guest" readers who review, I wish you guys had an account so I can reply to you all! Especially "Afnan Umer": Aw! You're not a 'sad loser' for reading fanfiction at 22. If that were true then I get to be the bigger loser 'cause I'm 27! *Goes off in a corner and sobs* :)**

. . . . . .

**Limoges**

_"Another thing, which renders these hotels extremely lonely, as compared with those of the United States, is the universal practice of taking your meals in your own apartment; and of course you never see any of the inmates of the house but the servants, unless you have private friends also lodging there."_ **– Caroline E. W. Cushing,** _**Letters: Descriptive of Public Monument, Scenery & Manners in France & Spain.**_

. . . . . .

Not much conversation passed between Enjolras and Éponine as they passed through Vierzon. With the noise of the clattering carriage wheels and the rush of the wind streaming over the vehicle, nothing could be communicated between them above a shout near each other's ear.

To pass the time Éponine opened the book Joly had generously snuck into her portmanteau as a surprise: _Éponine and Sabinus_.

Éponine smirked. The book had been the impetus that brought them to their current situation. It had sparked the idea of marrying Enjolras.

"I would not recommend that," Enjolras said, breaking into her thoughts.

Éponine looked from the book to him.

"Oh, I don't get sick. I used to read _Maman's_ novels in the back of Pére's cart, and that jostles worse than this."

Enjolras wished he could hide behind a book but unfortunately what did not bother Éponine _did_ bother him. He had found that out the hard way when he was five. _"I cannot take him anywhere!" _his mother had moaned, sobbing over her ruined pelisse.

Enjolras shook the unpleasant memory from his mind and resumed his observation of the passing country.

Éponine returned to her book but as much as she tried to read her eyes kept straying from the page to the man beside her.

Enjolras had always been an odd creature in her estimation, but now he was also a source of confusion—a puzzle. Over the course of their acquaintance he had always kept her at arm's length, which was to be expected with his personality. It had not bothered her before. It had seemed normal; there had even been times she had appreciated it. But ever since they left the _diligence_ office his distance had become more marked. But, then he had voluntarily embraced her, which really threw her into confusion because after that he seemed loath to touch her more than ever. Even now Enjolras was pressed as close to his side of the carriage as he could be so that not even one particle of their bodies were in danger of meeting.

Éponine's eyes wandered up from the tightly clasped hands resting on the top hat in his lap to the handsome face turned away from her. From the side she could see that his brows were deeply furrowed; his pensive face troubled. The wind stirred his hair, running through the golden curls with playful fingers. Éponine wished she were the breeze. But she knew such gestures, even if meant only to comfort, would be unwelcome. She remembered with a grimace his reaction to the innocently impulsive kiss she had planted on his forehead days ago.

Éponine returned her gaze to his face. She wished she knew what he was thinking, then she would know why he suddenly found her so repulsive.

_He called me his friend, but this isn't how friends treat each other . . . He must have changed his mind . . ._

Éponine gazed down at her faded traveling gown then to Enjolras again.

_I don't blame him. No matter what I do, to him I'll always be the dirty gamine in borrowed clothes who lies and steals and eavesdrops . . ._

Enjolras' gaze suddenly turned on her and their eyes met.

"What is it?" The crease between his brows deepened. Éponine perceived him to be irritated.

"Nothing, _Monsieur_," She said curtly and ducked back behind her book.

Enjolras turned his eyes back on the landscape, looking but not seeing. He forced his mind to think on other things such as his return to Paris in a year's time.

How to take up the banner of _liberté_ again? Would the people be ready then? Enjolras revaluated the events of the _émeute_: What went wrong? It was a painful topic and possibly an unhealthy one to dwell on, but it was the only topic that could easily occupy his mind for hours on end and keep his thoughts away from the woman beside him.

At twenty-two Enjolras' maturity in certain areas was still balancing out. In many ways he was much older than his natural years and in small ways he was very young. His relation to women was one of these small ways. This awareness towards Éponine, so new and startling, frightened him. When he had laced her stays and been faced with the sight of the delicate cotton shift beneath . . . as she held her hair over her shoulder exposing the bare neck dotted by freckles . . . all these things had flooded his senses. It was like something inside him had suddenly woken up. His mature, disciplined nature rallied to his defense and eventually regained control, but the battle had left him exhausted.

Enjolras did not have time for such distractions now any more than he had before the barricade. Enjolras' heart was marble and emblazoned on its face was the word "Patria". He had a responsibility to France, to _Les Amis_, to help bring about another Republic. If such distractions had arisen two months ago he would have walked away, distanced himself until the feelings faded. But now he was trapped and it was by his own doing. If Enjolras had understood the early warning signs when he was still at Joly's townhouse he would never have accepted Éponine's plan.

Enjolras stole a glance at the bane of his political existence. Éponine was bent over her book.

Something on the page must have concerned her for she bit her lip and frowned at it, as if in deep concentration. One of her two front teeth was chipped, and the rest of them were also slightly uneven, worn down from years of eating coarse black bread. The wind gently yanked a few strands of rich brown hair out from under her bonnet; auburn accents glinted in the sunlight.

On Enjolras' marble heart, just below "Patria" there was a crack, and in that crack Éponine had lodged herself and he, again, wondered how she got there.

Enjolras was fond of her. He admired her fortitude in the face of hardships; her quick-wit; her capacity and hunger for learning; her loyalty to those she loved and her willingness to risk her safety for their happiness (of course he was thinking of the time when she had returned to the barricade just to tell Marius of his letter's successful delivery). The girl could be very foolish where her heart was concerned, but what had once been a glaring fault in Enjolras' eyes was now an endearment.

_I love you. God help me, I love you._

This final revelation struck him like a punch to the stomach, and left him just as breathless. His one consolation and his great pain was the fact that Éponine still loved Pontmercy. She said she always would, and Enjolras had no reason to doubt her.

. . . . . .

At one o'clock the _diligence_ pulled into Châteauroux and stopped to change horses. The passengers, who chose to, descended from the carriage in search of a suitable repast. _Monsieur_ and _Madame_ Enjolras, along with others, took nuncheon at an inn called _La Sirène_, which Éponine thought a silly name for an inn that was nowhere near the sea.

"At least the name of my father's inn made some sense."

"What was it?" Enjolras inquired as they partook of the local fare.

"The Sergeant of Waterloo."

Éponine then proceeded to tell him her father's rendition of the story, but afterward divulged her suspicion that he was probably just trying to rob the Sergeant, not save him. Enjolras, remembering the loss of his watch, was inclined to agree.

From Châteauroux they rode through La Souterraine then from La Souterraine they reached Limoges. It was there that Éponine and Enjolras stopped for the night.

At the _Hôtel de Paris_ they ate their light supper in silence, each too tired to make conversation. Even though he was exhausted Enjolras noted with concern the number of times Éponine filled and emptied her wine glass. When they finished their meal Enjolras summoned the chambermaid to help Éponine out of her dress and stays. While this was being accomplished he lingered in the public parlors below stairs and listened with curiosity to the small talk around him, occasionally making some of his own. When he re-entered the room Éponine was in bed but was wide-awake, staring at him with an eyebrow raised. Her eyelids were drooping but Enjolras could still read what she was silently saying: _Don't even think about sleeping in the chair._

Enjolras gave her a half-hearted glare before disappearing behind the dressing screen. He undressed slowly, hoping that by the time he was done she would be asleep. When he re-emerged in his nightshirt he glanced at the bed. Éponine was turned on her side, away from him. Enjolras quietly folded his clothes and stowed them away in his portmanteau. He tiptoed towards the armchair on the other side of the room.

"_Monsieur Enjolras . . ._"

Enjolras froze and looked over his shoulder. Éponine had turned onto her back and was now staring up at him with a reproachful expression on her face. He turned around with a sigh and climbed into bed beside her. As before he put himself close to the edge, as far away from her as possible. If he had not immediately turned on his side, away from Éponine, he would have seen the sad expression in her eyes.

"Goodnight, _Madame_," he murmured.

"Goodnight, _Monsieur_."

Half an hour later Enjolras was still awake.

_Éponine must be awake too her breathing has not changed . . ._

"Monsieur Enjolras, are you awake?"

_That answers that._

"Yes."

"I think . . ." Éponine began, her voice slurred with drowsiness and remnants of alcohol, "you should call me Éponine now. It sounds too formal to keep calling me _Madame_ all the time . . . 'least in front o' other people . . ."

"My mother and father addressed always each other as _Madame_ and _Monsieur_ . . ." What they had called each other in private Enjolras could only guess.

"But, your parents are really rich . . . we're s'posed to be _reg'lar_ folk, right?" from the sound of it Éponine was beginning to drift off. "Reg'lar folk call each other by their first names . . . I think talking like a bourgeois around reg'lar folk as if you were not reg'lar folk is going to make the reg'lar folk think you're not . . . reg'lar . . . folk . . ."

Enjolras took a moment to processes this and was about to answer when Éponine interrupted him.

"May I call you Grégoire?"

"_No_."

There was a long pause. Éponine was thankful for the dark so he could not see her hurt expression.

"I'll have to call you _chér _then . . ."

"Very well." It was the lesser of two evils. "When we're in private you may call me Enjolras."

"Then you can call me Éponine. . ."

"Go to sleep."

. . . . . .

A quarter of an hour later:

"_Enjolras_?" Éponine's voice was even more heavily slurred; she was half-asleep now.

"Yes?"

"If you're . . . Lancelot, then . . . who am I . . .?"

Enjolras could not help the smirk that rose to his face. Was he _really_ having this conversation _now_? "Guinevere, I suppose," he murmured in reply.

"No . . ." A tone of petulance crept into her voice, " . . . don't like Guinevere . . . unfaithful . . ."

"Elaine, then."

"No . . . unloved . . ." the girl sighed, " . . . I guess I'll stay Éponine . . ."

Enjolras gave a soft chuckle, "then, I'll be Sabinus . . . "

A quiet minute passed and Enjolras heard his wife's breathing deepen and regulate.

"Goodnight, Éponine."

. . . . . .

**A/N #2: I posted the first chapter of my original fic "Ivory Bandstand" on FictionPress (check it out when you have the time)! I've had an account on FictionPress for some time, also under "Concetta", but I couldn't update the email (it's a really old account) on that one for some reason, so I have another account connected to this one: "Concetta1".**

** On another note, if you want to hear some gorgeous music look up "The Silver Violin" by Nicola Benedetti (I especially like her rendition of Korngold's Violin Concerto in D Major, Op. 3. and her instrumental version of "**_**Glück das mir verblieb**_** (Mariettea's Lied)" I love Korngold and it will blow you away. I also really like the main theme from "Ladies in Lavender" on the album). You cannot help but get all dreamy listening to this album!**

** I was also looking around on YouTube and came across a gorgeous rendition of "If I Loved You" from Rogers & Hammerstein's "Carousel", performed by Sierra Bogess and Julian Ovenden from BBC's Proms 2010, they also perform a really sweet "Tonight" from West Side Story and "Make Believe" from "Showboat" (yay, Jerome Kern!)**


	41. Family Matters

A/N: Sorry for the wait. I've just not had the time to work on it lately. I've been trying to go to sleep at more decent hours, plus creating Enjolras' family history, plus the recent events in Boston distracted me, then two days ago I got the news that a cousin has been in a coma for months (they didn't tell anybody until now) and today they are taking her off life-support. . . . So, in short, there's a lot going on. Thanks to all my dear readers for your patience! Remember my family in your prayers, I'd appreciate it! :)

. . . . . .

_He was standing in the middle of a field of wildflowers, surrounded by unidentifiable countryside. Before him was a painter's easel and a canvas. Enjolras frowned at the canvas and the brush in his hand._

What am I doing? I'm no artist.

_He looked at the canvas again. He seemed to have already been painting and what he saw confirmed his lack of talent. A mess of random streaks of black and red filled every white space. As he stared he thought he could make out portraits in the chaos: Combeferre, Coufeyrac, Bahorel . . . all the _Amis_ were there, staring back at him. Enjolras applied the brush to the canvas and tried to continue. Images of guns and the barricade appeared, a robust woman with a ragged tricolor banner in her fist stood strong above the flotsam. Patria. _

_Enjolras painted with renewed vigor when suddenly a hand came and snatched the canvas from the easel and threw it into a bonfire that had not been there before. Enjolras cried out and tried to reach into the flames to retrieve it. But the same mysterious hand held him back. He tried to turn his head to look at the stranger, but found he could not._

It was then that Enjolras woke up. He turned his head to see if he had disturbed Éponine, only to find she was not there. His heart leapt in sudden anxiety. He sat up in bed and quickly crawled to the bed curtains and yanked them open. Almost immediately he saw her.

The sky seen through the window was a dark blue, slowly growing paler as the sun rose. Éponine's figure was silhouetted against the color as she sat by the window. She had been looking out, but now looked towards him, startled by the sudden noise of heavy fabric being thrown aside.

"_Madame_, is something the matter?"

"I woke up and couldn't go back to sleep. So, I decided to watch the sunrise."

Enjolras let the curtains fall back. He lay down and closed his eyes, willing himself to fall back asleep. But, the image of Éponine framed by dawn was burned in his brain. His heart thrummed with warmth. He fervently willed it to cool.

"You said you were not close with your mother . . ."

The sudden statement made Enjolras open his eyes again.

"No. I am not."

"What _is_ your family like?"

"Where to begin?" Enjolras wondered out loud.

"At the beginning," Éponine replied and he could hear the smile in her voice and silently cursed as his mind pictured it.

"Well . . . My great-grandfather was a very wealthy silk merchant from Lyon. Some of his most loyal patrons were among the aristocracy, and it was the same with my grandfather. Needless, to say they are fervent royalists. When the failing economy of Lyon and the subsequent riots drew the wrath of the newly formed National Convention in '89, my grandfather moved the business to La Rochelle and bought an estate just outside the city, once owned by a dispossessed aristocrat—"

"Did you grow up there?"

"Please, don't interrupt. Yes. Where was I?"

"'Dispossessed aristocrat.'"

"Thank you. My father was the second born of three sons. Being a younger son he had two paths open to him: the priesthood or some sort of trade. My father was a religious man, but did not like the idea of forced celibacy. He had no interest in the silk trade, but he had a fascination with the law, so he decided to become a lawyer.

"He did so well in that line of work he took a partner and opened his own firm. Then, his eldest brother, while tending to business in America, fell victim to measles and died. He had no heirs, so my father suddenly found himself in charge of the entire business and estate and the burden of perpetuating the family name.

"He quickly found an eligible marriage partner in the cream of La Rochelle's society, with vague attachments to the aristocracy, and began a family. Much to the family's delight, I was born first; Four years went by and brought twin girls, then nine years later, one last girl."

"What are their names?"

"Marie-Clémence, Hèléne-Marguerite and Adrienne-Élisabeth."

"Are they as pretty as . . . their names?"

Enjolras shrugged. "I suppose so." He thought a moment more and a small smile came to his face. "Father used to call them 'his three graces.'" After explaining the reference to Éponine she smiled, too.

"You mentioned your father was one of three. What does your surviving uncle do?"

"He owns a shipbuilding company and lives in Nantes."

The sun was in view now, it was nearing six o' clock. Éponine was about the slide out of her chair when a chaise and four pulled into the hotel courtyard. A rogue cloud had covered the sun for a moment, but then moved away, suddenly spotlighting what Éponine had not immediately noticed: emblazoned on the doors of the chaise was a brightly painted family crest. In the center of the shield was a gold lion perched on a silver crescent moon, on a field of deep blue, spangled with gold stars.

"Enjolras, you should see this . . ."

"What?"

When Éponine did not answer right away Enjolras pulled himself out of bed and ambled over to her. Just as he came to the window, the carriage's occupant stepped out. He seemed to be on the cusp of middle-age. His dark hair was cropped short, his clothes were of the best fashion, but seemed to have been put on carelessly. His cravat was coming loose and his coat was unbuttoned. He ran his hands through his hair and looked about him, with a concerned air.

"What's he doing here?" Enjolras murmured.

Éponine looked up at him. "You know him?"

Suddenly the stranger looked up and locked eyes with Enjolras.

"At last I found you!" He exclaimed, his mouth widening in a relieved smile.

Enjolras' face was carefully blank when he leaned out of the open window and said "good morning, Uncle" as if the situation was not unusual in the least.

. . . . . .

Enjolras hastily dressed and met his uncle downstairs and led him to the sitting room that was attached to their hotel room by a communicating door.

"I received a letter from the Mayor of Arcueil. Now, before you fly into a huff, I say he was right in contacting me. We have not heard from you for eight months and when we heard of the uprising, we feared the worst, scandal and death. Then, we learn you are alive and married! Of all things, that was the last we expected. Married! Without your mother's consent, without a single word. Scandalous, Grégoire, and much too unkind."

Enjolras dropped his gaze from his uncle's identical blue one.

"I'm sorry."

A wry smirk came to Étienne's lips. "_I_ was particularly concerned when I heard about the rebellion. I do not want to inherit all that mess, you know that."

A little smile quirked Enjolras' mouth.

"Come back with me to La Rochelle," Étienne said.

Enjolras sighed. "I am resolved to go to Auverngne as a schoolmaster. I will be staying there a year then I will return to Paris."

"What? You cannot do that. You are the head of household now. You cannot shirk your duties any longer. I mean—your father's steward and I have been doing well enough for the past four years. We let you alone so you could finish your studies, it was what your father wanted . . . but now . . . you must come back."

Enjolras sat back on the sofa and deliberated for a moment.

"I will return for three days. No more than that. Then my wife and I will go to Auverngne, as planned."

"But—"

Enjolras gaze turned steely and Étienne knew that argument was useless. If he pressed him any more Grégoire might change his mind and not come at all.

"Very well." Hopefully, after being home, he could persuade him to stay, although it was doubtful.

Éponine could hear the sound of footsteps. Their conversation was clearly concluded. She peeled her ear off the door and ran behind the dressing screen.


	42. Detours

**A/N: Thanks again to everyone for the prayers. It is much appreciated. In thanks, here's another chapter.**

. . . . . .

Enjolras' fingers were steadier this time as he threaded the laces of Éponine's stays. He was distracted. His mind buzzed with thoughts of family, Saint Prisca and Éponine: he would have to tell the mayor of Saint Prisca about the delay . . . What would his family react to Éponine when they saw her? They would know immediately that she was so far beneath them that she did not even reach the first rung of the social ladder. Enjolras sensed in Éponine's rigid posture and fidgeting hands that she was nervous, too.

"It will only be three days . . ." he murmured.

She made a sound of acknowledgement and barely nodded her head. Enjolras tied off the laces and stepped away, allowing her room to slip on her dress before returning to button it up for her.

As his hands fell away from the buttons, they lingered in the air for a moment, hovering just above her hips.

Éponine suddenly whirled around and Enjolras hastily clasped his hands behind his back.

"But, what will I do? How will I act?" Éponine anxiously grabbed arm. "You'll have to teach me!"

"No amount of instruction is going to hide your upbringing, _Madame_. They will know it the minute they set eyes on you," Enjolras stated, matter-of-factly, gently moving his arm out of her grasp.

Éponine stiffened and looked at him as if he had just slapped her across the face, she could feel heat prickling at the back of her eyes.

"Then what _will_ you tell them?"

"The truth . . . mostly."

"What," Éponine burst out, "that you married a street urchin, a wh—" Éponine suddenly pursed her lips together. Shame, anger and sadness swirled in her chest. Shame of what she had been, anger at the sense of being looked down upon and sadness because she perceived it was Enjolras who was doing the looking. Tears began to fill her eyes in earnest. She raised a hand and pressed the tips of her fingers against her mouth. She turned away, fighting to regain control.

"What is the matter?" She saw Enjolras' hand hover near her shoulder then drop away. "Are you ill?"

"Why are you so loath to touch me? Am I that repulsive to you?"

Utter silence stretched behind her. She sent an accusatory glare at him over her shoulder, but was surprised out of her anger by his stricken expression.

Enjolras' blue eyes were wide with shock then his expression transitioned to pain: The raised eyebrows drew together and the cerulean orbs darkened, but soon that began to transform, as he schooled it into something more neutral.

"Éponine . . ." he said her name softly and emphatically.

_It's because I'm afraid . . . the more I touch you, the harder it will be to let you go . . ._

"I am only trying to keep a respectful distance. I am sorry if it impressed you as being repulsed. I assure you it—it was never my intention."

Éponine's face flushed with embarrassment. It had not even crossed her mind that that could have been the reason.

"Forgive me for misinterpreting . . . I appreciate it, _Monsiuer_."

Enjolras cleared his throat and began to back away. "I am going to go and see if I can rouse a servant to bring us some breakfast."

Éponine watched him go. The upset had melted away for the most part, but she was left with the residue of a familiar pain. She felt terribly awkward. She began to brush her hair, to give her hands something to do.

_What have I done? Now things really _will_ be awkward. I shouldn't have said anything._

. . . . . .

Enjolras dashed off a quick letter to the mayor of Saint Prisca, informing him of the brief delay as the post boys lashed their few belongings to the roof of his uncle's chaise. A servant had been pulled from bed to fetch a pot of coffee, bread and fruit.

Étienne Enjolras waited for Éponine to sit at the small table in the sitting room before sitting down himself.

"So, this is your wife . . ." Étienne said as he began his repast. Enjolras' pen stilled. Éponine quickly put down the cup that she had just brought to her lips and hastily stood up, attempting a curtsey.

"Éponine, _Monsieur_. It . . . is a pleasure to meet you, _Monsieur_."

"Oh, my dear, sit down. No need to stand on ceremony at this ungodly hour."

Éponine complied, her nerves slightly relieved by the uncle's apparently easy manners.

Enjolras finished his note, folded it and, after sealing it with a wafer, left the room to post the letter.

"Where are you from," Étienne asked, once Enjolras was gone. "Who is your family?"

The croissant stuck in Éponine's throat. She took a quick sip of coffee before answering.

"I'm from Paris . . . my father was an innkeeper . . ."

Étienne sighed. "Frankly, _Madame_, you are not what we had in mind for him. But . . . _you_ did the thing that all the rich, entitled women his mother threw at him could not and that is good enough for me."

Éponine blinked. She did not know what to say, outside of "thank you, _Monsieur_."

Enjolras stepped back into the room and his eyes immediately went to Éponine, taking note of the two spots of color on her cheeks. Étienne looked up at him and smiled.

"I was just complementing your wife on capturing you."

Enjolras flushed.

"Uncle, must you?"

Étienne chuckled.

"Aren't you going to eat, Grégoire?"

"I am not hungry. If you are ready. . ."

. . . . . .

The inside of the chaise was as luxurious as one would expect: there were plush cushions, upholstered in pale blue quilted satin, littered with a pattern of scrolled garlands of pale yellow. The large glass windows were trimmed with tasseled curtains of the same fabric and color, as was the lining of the interior. The ceiling of the carriage was painted also in pale yellow, trimmed with a silver border. Sewn into the lining of the carriage walls, beside the seats, were little pockets for holding any and all items the traveler might need on the journey.

Éponine spent the first few minutes of the trip just looking at the carriage and reveling in the softness of the seat. Enjolras, who sat beside her, began to talk with his uncle, mostly of things and people she did not know. As she gazed out the window at the passing scenery, the comfort of the cushions and the consequence of interrupted sleep began to steal over her and it was not long before she succumbed and drifted off.

. . . . . .

"She's very pretty," Étienne commented.

Enjolras glanced at the sleeping girl with her head resting against the carriage wall. They had been quietly talking of her for the past few minutes. Uncle Étienne was one of the few people in his family, outside of his father, who cared about those less fortunate than himself, so Enjolras shared a little of what he knew of Éponine's life and the situation that brought them to this point.

The carriage hit a rut in the dirt road, causing it to bounce, sending Éponine's head bumping slightly against the wall. Enjolras reached over and gently maneuvered her head onto his shoulder.

"It was kind of you to save her from the streets."

"It wasn't kind at all," Enjolras said curtly, his furrowed brow seemed to express self-condemnation. "It was a means to an end . . . and one I shouldn't have taken."

"Do you love her?"

"It does not matter whether I do or not."

Étienne sighed, feeling his frustration with his stubborn nephew rising. He redirected the conversation back to other things.


	43. Bienvenue à la maison

**A/N: I 'm back! Sorry I've been so long in posting. There was a lot of ground to cover when doing the outline for these coming chapters, character-wise and research-wise, plus a bit of writer's block; and I've just been busy. And also, to update: my cousin passed away. Thank you all so very much for the prayers and well wishes, it means a lot. :)**

**Most of the readers worrying if something happened to me or if I abandoned the fic were signed in as guests so I couldn't answer them! And I didn't want to leave an author's note chapter, as I have once before, to reassure everyone, that would be cruel. So, thank you all for waiting! Here you go!**

**. . . . . .**

Éponine was roused into waking by the sensation of a decrease in speed.

The chaise-and-four had driven through the day, and was now making to stop in Mansle for nuncheon and to change the horses.

Éponine was startled to find she had been resting on Enjolras' shoulder. She popped up, embarrassed.

_. . . How long was I asleep? Why did he let me do that? . . . because he's too polite to push me away . . . ?_

"I'm sorry," Éponine mumbled, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

Enjolras looked at the floor of the carriage, two faint spots of color had rose to his cheeks. "For what?"

Éponine's mouth opened, but then shut again.

"Nothing . . . I suppose."

Étienne stepped out of the carriage first then held out his hand for Éponine. Enjolras followed after.

. . . . . .

The carriage arrived at the Enjolras estate in the late afternoon. Éponine leaned her head out of the carriage window to survey the long drive flanked by a row of poplar trees. At the end of the drive, Éponine could just make out the marble of façade of the Enjolras estate.

The former owner had been a lover of the simple lines of neo-classical architecture, which had been prevalent at the time of its original construction. The main part of the house was modeled after the _Petit Trianon_ of Versailles, which then had two wings added onto it for further accommodation.

Éponine felt smaller and smaller as the house grew larger and larger. She shrunk back into her seat.

Gilded iron gates yawned open to accept the carriage, which entered the roundabout in front of the house.

On the steps leading from the main portal stood the steward, the housekeeper and the butler and footmen to receive them and their luggage.

Their faces were masks of civility as Étienne, Grégoire and Éponine Enjolras alighted from the vehicle.

"Welcome home's" were offered which Enjolras received with polite pleasure. But, Éponine noted the tightness in his expression. It seemed as if he were bracing for something.

"Bélanger and Noémi will show you to your rooms," the steward said, "and after you have refreshed yourself from the road, _Madame_ will receive you in her salon, Master Grégoire."

"Thank you, Comtois," Enjolras said with a brief nod. He turned and held out his hand to Éponine. She looked at it for a moment then looked up at him. His face was carefully blank as he gazed back at her. The only thing full of expression were his eyes, and they looked troubled. She took his hand and they entered the house.

The first thing Éponine noticed when she stepped into the foyer were the black and white diamond tiles that spanned the length of the floor. Then, the wide marble staircase that clung to the left wall, which was white and decorated by a relief of garlands spilling from vases trailing roses. Above, where the staircase began to turn was a large portrait of a man who appeared to be from two centuries prior. He wore a long, curled black wig and was dressed in a dark suit of armor, leaning on a sheathed sword.

Another servant came and guided Enjolras and Éponine to the staircase. Éponine almost lost her balance a few times on account of constantly swiveling her head back and forth, up and down, to look at everything as she ascended the stairs. The staircase made a wide spiral and Éponine could see the ground floor through the well.

They were met at the top of the landing by a maid who bid Éponine to follow her while the manservant lead Enjolras on in a different direction. Éponine's heart constricted with anxiety.

_Where is he going? Why am I not staying with him?_

She reached out and grabbed Enjolras' hand. The two servants exchanged glances.

"_Monsieur _. . ."

Enjolras squeezed her hand and gave her a slow nod; his gaze was steady and reassuring. Éponine felt a little calmer.

"Go on," he said, "I will find you later." He gently disengaged her hand from his and continued on. Éponine felt like a boat that had just had its mooring line cut.

The room Éponine was given was in one of the two wings of the house. The room could have fit the entire structure of the Gorbeau house inside it (of course, that building had been rather squat from diapidation). The room continued the motif of white paneling and garlands. The fabric was a soft mint-green patterned with dusky roses; under her feet was a gleaming parquet floor in a basket weave pattern; to her left were three tall, west facing windows. The late sun shone on the splendor, bathing the large marble fireplace and the small crystal chandelier in a warm light. At the end of the room was something Éponine had certainly never seen before: the bed was sitting in a niche in the wall. The bed curtains were drawn aside from it just as if it were another window.

But, once all the richness sank in, so did the anxiety. The room was beautiful, but she felt overwhelmed. The windows were open, allowing a fresh breeze, but the air felt close. It was all too much . . . her nerves were already wound up from being confused by Enjolras, anticipating meeting his family, and the increasing feeling that everything was wrong . . . that she did not belong here . . .

". . . I need to get out . . ."

"_Madame_?" The maid turned from unpacking Éponine's valise, which had been delivered already.

"How do I get out of here?" Éponine asked breathlessly. The maid gave her a wary look.

"_Madame_?"

Éponine made for the door and put her hand on the knob. "I just need some fresh air."

The maid sprang into action, shooing her away from the door. "Follow me please, _Madame_."

She led her back down the stairs and out onto a stone veranda, which then led into a large, enclosed garden filled with perfectly pruned flowers trapped in square plots, among topiaries that lined the perimeter of the enclosure.

_More walls._

Éponine turned to ask the maid to show her the way to the park she saw from the carriage, but she had gone. She let out a huff and surveyed the garden again, trying to decide whether to continue on or return to the house. It was then that she spotted a gated archway at the far side of the garden. She ran to it and saw that it lead into an orchard and beyond that, the rolling park. She pushed against the gate and it gave.

She found herself walking down a dirt lane, underneath the boughs of a dozen or so peach trees whose squat bodies possessed long, twisting branches that met each other in the middle, creating a natural archway over her head.

A breeze stirred the leaves and brushed her face. She felt the tension in her chest begin to slowly uncurl. She paused and inhaled deeply through her nose then let it out slowly through puckered lips. The breeze smelled vaguely of the fish market in Paris.

_It must be the smell of the sea. I've never seen the sea . . ._

"I beg your pardon, but who are you?"

Éponine jumped at the sudden voice that appeared to be coming from above her head. The first thing she saw on looking up was a small boot, attached a stockinged leg, which was peeking from a pair of lace-trimmed bloomers. The little leg was swinging carelessly back and forth. Éponine's eyes traveled up to meet those of a dark-haired, dark-eyed girl in a pink short gown, nestled in the curve of a bough and leaning against the tree trunk. Her hair was partially pulled back, while the rest fell in careless curls about her shoulders; peach juice was dribbling down her sharp chin and onto her crisp, white pinafore. She looked to be about eleven or twelve, but her serious expression made her seem older.

"Who are you?" the young stranger repeated. She shut the book that was in her lap and continued to scrutinize Éponine, who saw no reason why she should not answer her.

"Éponine Jon—Thén . . . Enjolras."

The girl tilted her head. "That's an odd combination. A distant cousin I haven't been informed of yet, perhaps? Hmm . . . I see no resemblance . . . you have Parisian accent . . ." The last sentence she spoke to herself.

"I'm not related—well—not by blood—"

The girl straightened and a sudden smile lit up her face.

"Are _you_ Grégoire's wife?"

_Of sorts . . ._

A flush rose to Éponine's cheeks and she nodded.

"Then he's arrived at last!" The girl tossed aside her peach and moved as if she were to leap out of the tree. But then she suddenly stopped, and with a frown she settled back against the tree trunk. "No. He will have to come find me if he wants to see me!" Her brows drew down even more and she crossed her arms tightly against her chest. Éponine almost laughed, for her posture reminded her very strongly of Enjolras.

"Are you . . . _Mademoiselle_ Adrienne?"

The girl jumped a little, as if startled. She was so lost in her brooding she had forgotten that Éponine was there. One of her brows hiked up. "Yes." She unfolded her arms and brightened a little. "So, Grégoire has spoken of me to you? What did he say?"

"I told her you are a little hoyden."

Both females jumped and turned to Enjolras, who was standing with his arms folded, his posture amusingly mirroring his youngest sister's. But unlike his sister he was not frowning. His mouth curled up at the corners in a kind of smile Éponine had never seen on him before: teasing. Good humor shone in his blue eyes. He unfolded his arms and walked over to Éponine's side. He was dressed in fresh clothes; smell of sandalwood she loved so much was heavy on him and his hair was slightly damp. A few golden tendrils clung to his forehead and temple. Enjolras' gaze rested on Éponine for a moment before swiveling up to his sister.

"No. Don't speak to me!" she cried, "I'm snubbing you."

"Snubbing me? Why?"

"Three letters I sent you, dummy, two months ago. Three! And you did not answer one of them."

The humor faded from Enjolras' eyes, along with his smile.

"I am _very sorry_, Addi. I meant to, truly I did. But, something . . . came up . . ."

Adrienne gave him a very pointed, solemn look that, once again, belied her age. "So I have heard."

There was an awkward pause. Enjolras cleared his throat.

"Adrienne, I would like you to meet my wife—"

"Yes, yes. We have met. Though why any woman would want to marry stuffy old you is beyond me."

Éponine slid a nervous sidelong glance at Enjolras, expecting an angry reaction, and was shocked to see him burst out into a peal of wonderful laughter. But, he was not done shocking her: in the next moment he leapt into the tree. Adrienne squealed as he pulled her from her perch, over his shoulder, carrying her back to the ground. All traces of anger were gone from Adrienne's face and her cheeks were flushed from her wide, delighted smile.

"You big ogre! Put me down!"

Enjolras ignored her and, with his sister still on his shoulder he spun to face Éponine and his smile faded a little.

"Why are you still in your traveling clothes?"

When no immediate answer came he requested that she return indoors, have a bath and change her clothes. His familiar frown returned.

"My mother is waiting to receive us."

Adrienne's giggles quieted immediately. Enjolras put her down. She looked solemnly at her brother then turned her brown gaze on Éponine. She suddenly took her hand and gave her a pointed look.

"I've decided I like you." She then grabbed Enjolras' hand. "So, don't let mother bully her. And keep a civil tongue in your mouth." She gave their hands a squeeze then let go, grabbing her book from off the grass where it had landed. She gave them a wave then took off for another hiding place where she could continue to read in peace.

Enjolras looked at Éponine and a little bit of the humor returned to his eyes. "And that is Adrienne for you." He held out his arm to her. Éponine took it and they slowly made their way back to the house.


	44. Le Havre

A/N: Sorry for the long wait, dear readers! I've been slowly working on this chapter in my notebook! I made it extra long this time in apology. Forgive me if the writing toward the end of the chapter is a little sloppy, I was getting tired but I pushed on, all for you guys. :)

. . . . . .

_**Le Havre**_

Éponine was whisked off to a quick bath. The ladies maid assigned to her had no qualms in expressing how outmoded the gowns in her valise were. She chose the best out of all of them: the pink-lavender silk taffeta gown Éponine wore at her wedding.

"This will have to do for tonight and the dinner party tomorrow."

"Dinner party?"

"Mademoiselles Marie and Hèléne are having a party for their various society friends, including many of their suitors. I suppose it will now also be in honor of Monsieur Grégoire's return." The ladies maid tied off the last lace of Éponine's stays then fetched the dress, slipping it over Éponine's head.

"I will take you into town tomorrow, Éponine," came a chipper voice from behind them. Adrienne had quietly slipped into the room while the maid had been chattering away. "We can find some ready-made gowns of the latest mode and have them altered for you."

"Thank you . . ."

_Gowns?_

_Dinner party?_

_Madame Enjolras . . ._

Éponine felt her head begin to spin slightly.

After her hair was properly styled she was led through various corridors toward Madame Enjolras' chambers. When she arrived at the doors she saw that Enjolras was already standing there. He said nothing to her as she approached, nor did he look at her, he did not even seem to realize she was there. She glanced quickly at his face before taking her place beside him: his eyes were as hard as ice; his jaw grimly set. Éponine's heart beat faster. Her feelings were similar to those she had experienced behind the barricade, waiting for the inevitable storm.

Enjolras suddenly put out his left hand to her, palm up. She grasped it. "No," Enjolras said, "like this," and he gently pried her hand loose and directed her to lightly rest her fingers in his palm. His fingers gently curled around them.

In the next moment the doors were opened and they were ushered inside.

The room was large. The walls were paneled in a soft gray-blue with the white garland motif as a trim. Sunlight poured through tall, west-facing windows. Near those windows, seated on a plush chair was a middle-aged woman with a shawl draped over her legs and embroidery in her lap. Her hair was the color of corn silk, streaked with white. Above her and to her left was a very large painting of a strange landscape. It looked like palaces floating on a sea, surrounded by little skiffs.

"Monsieur and Madame Enjolras." the servant announced.

The woman's face turned up to them. Éponine almost smiled at the striking similarity between her and Enjolras.

The blue eyes, so familiar, looked Éponine over with marked disapproval.

Éponine felt heat rise to her cheeks and resentment curl in her chest.

"I suppose this is your wife. Forgive me for not rising; I suffer from occasional bouts of acute rheumatism. What is your name, girl?"

"Éponine-Marguerite, Madame," Enjolras answered for her.

Éponine dipped into a shaky curtsey. She wished she could sink through the floor.

"A frivolous name, although with the second your parent showed some taste. From now on you will be known as Marguerite."

Éponine quickly straightened. "Wha—?"

"What is your parentage?"

Éponine's brow creased as she tried to process the question while at the same time trying to grapple with what just happened.

Mme. Enjolras sighed impatiently.

"Who are your parents? Who is your family?"

"My father was an innkeeper . . . so was my grandfather . . ." One of Mme. Enjolras' sculpted brows rose in an unpleasant way. "My father was at the battle of Waterloo." Éponine blurted out; desperate to say something that might impress her.

"Many were," The older woman responded flatly.

"He saved the life of a baron who was trapped under his horse when the charge fell into a trench."

Mme. Enjolras' other brow rose and she appeared slightly more interested. "Who was this baron?"

"Pontmercy."

Mme. Enjolras tilted her head as she considered the name. "Hm. I am not familiar with that family."

"They're related to a Monsiuer Gillenormand . . ."

The lady's face turned hard again. "I do not know him, either. Your 'baron' must have been one of those of which the title was spuriously bestowed by that little usurper."

Éponine felt her face grow warm again at yet another rebuff. She wished Enjolras would say something, but what could he say?

"Do you have brothers or sisters?"

"Three—two brothers, Madame, and one sister. I am the eldest."

"You said three at first, what happened to the third brother?"

"He died last month."

Madame's gaze fell briefly on her silent son, it seemed to Éponine that she saw a flicker of anger in her eyes, but when she turned back to her, her face softened slightly. "I am sorry."

There was a short, but sufficiently awkward, pause before Mme. Enjolras spoke again. "If you would not mind, I would like a private word with my son."

Enjolras escorted Éponine back to the door. She was grateful to be leaving, but on the other hand she did not feel comfortable leaving Enjolras to her. She paused at the threshold and turned to him to say something. Anything. But, he was not looking at her; his mind was far away.

"Grégoire . . ."

Enjolras gaze snapped to her, startled out of his thoughts. "I told you not to . . ." but his voice trailed off into a sigh, he seemed to have lost the will to reprimand her. "I will not be long." He said before backing back into the room and closing the doors behind him.

. . . . . .

Éponine stared at the oaken doors indecisively. Her gaze kept falling to the large keyhole. She looked up and down the corridor. No one was coming. Ignoring the imagined voice of Enjolras reprimanding her she crouched down and pressed her ear to the keyhole. She heard their voices, but they were too far away from the door to be made out.

Suddenly, a cough came from her right. A middle-aged manservant was glaring down at her.

"Do not cough at her, Beringer. She has every right to know what is being said in there." Adrienne stepped out from behind the scandalized manservant.

_Where did she come from? She would make a good sneak-thief._ Éponine thought absently.

Beringer nodded and went about his business.

"Come, there's a better way," Adrienne said and beckoned Éponine with a tilt of her head.

The girl led Éponine down various halls then until they were standing in front of a large, full length mirror, in a gilded frame. She ran her hand along the right edge of the frame until she found what she was looking for. Éponine heard a faint click and the glass shifted slightly, swinging open a little, like a door left ajar. A secret passageway!

"Oh!" Éponine gasped with delight. She only read about such things in her mother's cheap gothic novels. Adrienne gave the mirror a little push and it gave way, enough for them to step through.

The inside was dark, dank, and dusty. Adrienne instructed Éponine to stand still for a moment. She heard a match strike then a flare of light appeared. Adrienne was holding a small oil lamp. After she replaced the hurricane glass over the flame she took Éponine's hand and led her along the passageway.

"This house is actually a lot older than the eighteenth century. Most of it was taken down and rebuilt to fit the new styles, but some sections, such as this, are still intact. Grégoire told me the original owner was a Huguenot sympathizer and he helped them leave France during the persecutions. He would hide them in these passageways. That is why the estate is known as _Le Havre_."

Éponine sneezed and Adrienne shushed her. "We're almost there. Look."

Éponine looked as Adrienne raised her lamp to direct her gaze. She could make out what appeared to be the back of a very large canvas.

"That is the back of the painting of the Palazzo di San Marco."

"The one with the houses floating on the water?"

"Have you never heard of Venice?" Adrienne whispered incredulously.

Éponine felt terribly ignorant and considered lying for a moment. But, she shook her head.

"It's in Italy. And they don't float; they are built on stilts that are hammered into the sea floor. I've seen it myself."

"It sounds . . . like something out of a fairytale. I'd like to see it."

"Maybe Grégoire will take you someday."

"Maybe . . ." Éponine replied, uncomfortable with the turn in the conversation, feeling guilty for having to lie to Adrienne.

"Oh! I almost forgot why I brought you here." Adrienne put her lamp down and led Éponine to the canvas. She silently indicated a piece of rope that had been glued to back of the canvas. She mimed pulling it. Éponine nodded her understanding. Apparently, the painting swung inward and one, if they had a rope ladder or something, could crawl out from behind the painting and into the salon.

"I do not know what possessed your uncle . . ." Madame Enjolras' voice came filtering through the canvas. "I never wished for your immediate return, for I knew how it would be: you would bring rumors on your heels, bringing shame on this family. And so it has happened, although quite in the manner I did not expect. What have you to do with this girl you have married? I know you Grégoire, you never so much as looked at any of the eligible girls I presented to you. All of them were rich and beautiful. But, you declared you would never marry, that you had no time, your ambitions left no room for such things. If not for your sisters and myself, one would think that you had no idea of there being a species called woman . . . So, what is it; a charity case? Not even you with your bleeding heart would go to such lengths . . . No . . . you didn't did you? You would not . . . Is she?

"No, _Madame_, she is not."

"Well, thank heaven for that."

"Maybe, we should go . . ." Adrienne whispered in Éponine's ear. Éponine shook her head, staring intently at the canvas.

There was a pause before Mme. Enjolras spoke again.

"Are you in love with her?"

"She is a dear friend—"

"Are you in love with her?"

" . . . No, _Madame_."

Adrienne bit back a gasp and looked at Éponine. But Éponine's facial expression showed no sign of distress.

"Ah, I thought not," there was an unpleasant note of triumph in Mme. Enjolras' voice. "Then why _did_ you marry her?"

Enjolras told her the truth. He spoke of his plans to become a schoolmaster in Saint Prisca, and how it was a requirement that he should be married. Without giving the details he simply implied how it would benefit his friend to be married to him. He had wanted to help her and she offered her help in return.

Mme. Enjolras let out sharp, bitter laugh. "A marriage of convenience, the thing you so fought against with me, you walked willingly into yourself . . . You must appreciate the irony, Grégoire."

"I wanted to help someone, Mére. I failed in lifting up the whole of the wretched poor. So I settled for uplifting just one."

"So, the rumors circulating are true . . . you were a leader in the student rebellion of two months ago . . ."

"Yes."

"Then . . ." Mme. Enjolras' voice shook a little, "it would have been better for you to have died."

Éponine bit back a gasp of shock.

A terrible silence followed.

"But, you are here now, and we will repair the dike of our reputation as best we can."

Adrienne began to tug urgently on Éponine's sleeve.

"Let's go."

Éponine followed her out and soon found herself back in corridor. Adrienne closed the mirror then whirled about to clasp Éponine's hand.

"I am so sorry, Éponine, I did not think—I thought only the greatest love would induce Grégoire to marry—I assumed—I—"

"No need to apologize, Adrienne. What he said is true. It is a marriage of convenience and I already knew he was not in love with me, nor I with him. So, it does not bother me at all."

"Then why are you crying?"

A sudden draft hit Éponine's cheeks and she was suddenly aware of the warm stream that was trickling down her face. How did she not notice? She quickly swiped them away.

"I'm not crying, I think I just got some dust in my eyes, that's all."

Adrienne slowly nodded but the worried look did not leave her face.

"I am sorry you had to hear your mother say such an awful thing to your brother . . ."

"It was a bit of a shock, but at the same time expected. Reputation is everything to her . . ."

Éponine did not have much time to think over all she had heard because at that moment the sound of tinkling female laughter came floating down from the end of the hall. Around the corner there appeared three beautiful young women and one handsome young man. All were carrying battledores, indicating they were returning from a game of shuttlecock. Two of the women were almost identical: tall and willowy, their hair was a bevy of golden curls, bright cerulean eyes rimmed with long, dark lashes, their full, coral lips parted in smiles that showed their white, perfect teeth. The third woman had chestnut colored hair and her eyes were of a rare violet color, she was just as tall and slender as the twins. The young man looked to be about Éponine's age. His auburn hair was styled in careless waves, but his clothes were of the latest fashion and his cravat was in an exquisite, complicated knot.

"Ah, Addy!" Exclaimed one of the blonde visions, "you are out of hiding early; we usually do not see you until dinner. But, who is this?"

"Marie, Hèléne," Adrienne stepped forward, her sharp little chin in the air, "this is Éponine-Marguerite Enjolras, Grégoire's wife."

Éponine curtseyed. Hèléne gave her a long look, as did the other six pairs of eyes.

"Of course she is," the twin said. Her tone was faintly condescending and her smile did not reach her eyes. Éponine clenched her teeth as she realized the sting in the simple phrase was meant for Enjolras. Her hand itched to slap her right across her pretty face. Éponine had always figured that the coldness of her parents and lack of manners was the fault of extreme poverty, but here was a family that had everything they could possibly want and they were just as bad (Adrienne excepted). Her heart ached for Enjolras' sake. No wonder he was the way he was.

"Madame Enjolras," Adrienne said in a pointed tone, her cheeks flushed with anger and shame, "May I present to you my sisters and cousins; Hèléne-Marguerite, Marie-Clémence, Angélique-Caroline, and Marcel-Francois." The group made their obligatory obeisance and civil murmurs of "pleasure to make your acquaintance". Éponine nearly gave a bitter laugh at the ridiculous hypocrisy of it all.

"Welcome to "_Le Havre_", Madame," Marie said. The group gave another round of obligatory curtseys and bows before continuing on down the corridor. Adrienne stuck her tongue out at their elegantly retreating figures.

"I'm sorry for my family," Adrienne said.

Éponine shrugged her shoulders. "It's alright. I'm used to being looked down on."

"Me, too," Adrienne said quietly, toying with the lace trimmings on her dress.

"You like to read . . ."

Adrienne gave her a wary look, as if she half-expected ridicule from Éponine, too. ". . . Yes."

"Would you show me the library? You have a library, don't you?"

Adrienne perked right up and enthusiastically took her hand again. "It would be a poor rich man's house without one! I'll show you my favorites and you can borrow them, if you like."

"Thank you."

Éponine let Adrienne lead her away.

The library was all Éponine expected, as more. The shelves took up the space of two stories and had stairs leading up to the other level with railed walkways running along the upper shelves.

Adrienne excitedly chattered away, pulling out this book and that book, Éponine smiled as she watched the girl give miniature summaries of each one, her cheeks flushed with pleasure and her eyes bright with enthusiasm.

_Enjolras . . ._

Her heart sank. What he had said should not have hurt her. She had assumed he did not feel for her in that way, and her assumption had been correct. He gave her friendship and that was all she had wanted and expected from him in return . . .

Then why was she feeling this familiar pain?

She shoved aside all thoughts that swerved dangerously in a certain direction and forced herself to concentrate on what Adrienne was saying.

_I wonder what Marius is doing right now?_

. . . . . .

Dinner was another uncomfortable affair. Fortunately Adrienne had been placed beside Éponine at the table and was able, to with a slight nod or shake of her head, indicate which utensil Éponine was to use.

Éponine's eyes went wide at the amount of dishes laden on the long dining table. Venison, rabbit, fish, salads, pork, fruit, pigeon . . .

We cannot possibly eat all this.

To Éponine's surprise, they did not. Most of the dishes were barely eaten before they were taken away.

So much waste . . . the uneaten food at this table could probably sustain the people in Saint Michel for a week!

The thought made Éponine lose her appetite. Her gaze traveled up to Enjolras who was sitting across from her. She started when she found him to also be looking her way. He gave a slight nod to the table and raised an eyebrow and she understood. He was thinking the same thing.

Some of the party attempted to make polite, superficial conversation with her. The only conversations she genuinely enjoyed were with Adrienne and Étienne, who was sitting beside Adrienne. Enjolras did not make any attempt, but Éponine understood why. If he did not have anything purposeful to say, he would not say anything at all and if he did have something worth saying, he would certainly not say it in front of his disapproving family.

Perhaps he would speak with her later . . . Éponine was disturbed by the small flip her heart gave at the thought.

. . . . . .

When dinner was over they party retired to a salon where there was set up a piano and a harp and they were all obliged to listen to the twins play the instruments and Julienne sing.

Her voice was angelic and Hèléne and Marie looked like they had stepped out of a classical painting with their perfect posture and delicate fingers commanding their instruments. The warm glow of the dim candlelight made them even more beautiful.

Enjolras was sitting beside Éponine on a gilded loveseat. Their thighs were just touching and she could feel his body heat bleeding through the material of her garments to her skin. She glanced up at him. He was watching his cousin sing with, what seemed to Éponine, intense concentration. She felt small and invisible. Then suddenly, without moving his head, Enjolras' gaze slid to hers and held it. The corner of his mouth curved up in a small, secret, encouraging smile. Éponine felt endowed with a new strength and she sat up a little straighter, returning his smile. When he turned back to the recital she looked down at the lace gloves always wore to hide the disfiguring scar on her left hand.

"_The dearest of friends" . . ._

. . . . . .

Éponine lay awake in her all too large bed that night, her arms spread out wide on either side of her body. She marveled at the fact that all over the world there were people who fell in love and were loved in return. It seemed a miracle to her that that even happened. It happened for Cosette . . . everything happened for Cosette . . .

She tried not to think about him and failed. Images of him came before her mind's eye: his face full of the rare smiles she had witnessed over their period of acquaintance . . . the shared conversations and cares . . . those moments of consideration . . . his protection . . . the sudden embrace . . . all the things that seemed to indicate the chance of something deeper . . . Then the words of his denial played in her head. She clutched at the fabric of her nightgown over her chest.

_NO! No, no, no! Stop it, Éponine, stop it!_

She screwed her eyes shut, squeezing out the tears that had been sitting on the corners of her eyes.

_Never again . . ._

Suddenly, she was startled from her thoughts by a light tapping noise at her door. Éponine swung her legs over the bed, pulled on the lace gloves and her robe. She leaned her head near the door.

"Who is it?"

"Enjolras."

Her heart slammed against her chest. What was he doing at her door in the middle of the night? She unbolted the door and shyly opened it just enough to see him. He was not yet dressed for bed, but was in his shirtsleeves. He held a lit candle.

"Did I wake you?"

"No."

Enjolras shifted his weight a moment and looked unsure, then he seemed to decide. "I want to show you something."

. . . . . .

Enjolras led Éponine down various corridors and up two flights of small stairs, which seemed, in the dark to lead to nothing but a ceiling.

"Hold this for a moment, please." Enjolras handed Éponine the candle. He held his hands above his head and pressed against the ceiling. With a groan it gave way. A trapdoor. Pale light spilled through the opening. Enjolras leaned over and blew out the candle. Éponine tried to banish the image of his puckered mouth so close to her. He stepped up through the hole then reached down to help her out.

The first thing Éponine felt on exiting was the sea breeze hitting her face and the first thing she noticed was the full moon. They were on the roof.

Enjolras still held her hand as he led her down the length of the "widow's walk". With a flourish of his hand he led her gaze to a strange, long piece of brass sitting on a tripod.

"This is what I wanted to show you."

"What is it?"

"A telescope."

Éponine blinked. Was that supposed to mean something?

"What is it?"

Enjolras let out a husky chuckle and bent over the contraption for a moment. When he straightened up he gently put a hand to her back and urged her over to the lens.

"Look in here."

Éponine gave him a doubtful look but complied. She blinked and gasped in surprise as she beheld the moon brighter and bigger than she had even seen it. She marveled at all the small pock-marks caused by meteors.

After a few minutes Enjolras gently nudged her away. "Here, I would like to show you something else."

Éponine stepped back and watched as he moved the telescope to another part of the "widow's walk". "Let me see if I remember correctly . . . it has been a while since I've done this . . ." looked into it, adjusted it, then looked again. When he seemed to be satisfied he beckoned Éponine over. She looked through the lens. She beheld a small brown dot with what appeared to be a like a floating bracelet around its middle.

"What you are seeing," Enjolras said, "is Saturn, two planets away from us."

"Really?" Éponine breathed. "Monsieur, that's amazing!"

"This was my favorite spot when I was younger," Enjolras said, looking up at the spangled heavens. "I used to come up here to think, to get away . . ."

Éponine straightened and followed his gaze to the sky. "I don't blame you," she said dryly.

"I am sorry, Éponine, for the way my family received you."

"Your encounter with my father was not exactly warm, so now we're even."

Enjolras smirked. "I suppose so . . ."

The next hour was spent with Enjolras pointing out all the different constellations, their names and the myths behind them. As he spoke she slyly glanced at him every now and then, enjoying the sight of him as he gestured at the sky warming to his subject.

. . . . . .

When Éponine began to yawn Enjolras led her back to her room. Éponine paused on the threshold.

"Thank you for a pleasant evening, _Monsieur_," she gave him a mock curtsey.

"My pleasure, _Madame_," Enjolras gave a small bow in return. "I wanted you to experience something pleasant after having to endure . . ." Enjolras trailed off. Éponine nodded her understanding.

_I wish you would'nt do such nice things._

"I think Adrienne is very sweet and I enjoyed her company."

Enjolras' lips spread into a warm grin that sent Éponine's heart slamming against her ribcage.

"I am very pleased to hear that. Goodnight, _Madame_."

"Goodnight."

Éponine closed the door, waited a few seconds then opened it again so she could secretly watch his retreating back walked down the hall, back to his room.

_Merde._

. . . . . .

Le Havre: The Haven


	45. Desperate Measures

**A/N: Sorry for the long wait. As much as I love writing this story, it's hard to sit inside and type when the days keep getting more gorgeous. On top of that I've been job hunting and will be starting my new job in a week. I also got sidetracked by watching Shakespeare on YouTube (Omgoodness, Derek Jacobi as Richard II: **_**amaaazing**_**)!**

**But, I digress. I am still doing a lot of writing in my notebook, because it's so wonderfully portable; it's the finding the time to sit down at the computer and type out what I've written that is the hard part. Busy, busy, busy. But, fear not, gentle readers! I have no intention of abandoning this fic. Ever. I have a purpose for this fic other than to just vent my love of É/E.**

**. . . . . .**

**Desperate Measures**

**. . . . . .**

Most of the next morning was spent at the dressmakers. Éponine's feet ached. For almost two hours she stood on the fitting dais as the owner, Madame Aiguille, and her assistant measured her and pinned the suitable ready-mades to fit her.

When Adrienne first announced the deadline of the gown's completion there was some protest on the part of Madame Aiguille. But, the girl had only to remind her for whom she was altering this gown. The Enjolras family was not only highly influential in La Rochelle society, but also their best customers. The fear of God was sufficiently put in all the seamstresses within earshot.

After all was finished Adrienne took Éponine to a few other shops for what she insisted were necessary trifles, such as perfume.

"Grégoire adores the scent of _muguet_."

Éponine lowered the tiny vial with an irritated sigh. "Adrienne, you know it's not—"

"I know, I know. But . . . there is no harm in smelling particularly nice, is there?"

. . . . . .

Around noon Uncle Étienne joined the party and treated them to a midday meal.

"One of my designs is in port today. If you ladies are not too busy I would like to show it to you."

Adrienne opened her mouth and seemed about to give an enthusiastic "yes", but then she checked herself and looked to Éponine.

Éponine took the cue, appreciative of the consideration.

"I would like that, _Monsieur_, thank you. I've never seen anything bigger than a river barge."

After they finished their luncheon, they climbed into a _fiacre_ and headed for the docks. When Éponine first arrived into the city of La Rochelle that morning she had caught glimpses of the sea and had been longing to see more.

It was with pleasure and awe that Éponine beheld not only the sea but also the imposing ancient turrets that guarded the harbor entrance. She vaguely remembered seeing etchings of them in a mouldering text in father's ramshackle collection of books, which he used to make himself sound learned.

Étienne directed their gaze to a row of modest vessels, the biggest of which were fishing ships and small merchant schooners.

"Not too long ago," Étienne said, "this port was full of large commercial ships, but this old harbor's size is swiftly becoming too small to accommodate such vessels." Étienne sighed. "But, here is the ship I designed." He led the girls to a handsome three-masted ketch. On the side of the ship, carved and gilt, was the name _Le Papillion_.

"I like the cut of its jib," Adrienne said simply.

A sharp burst of surprised laughter came from her uncle. "Dear girl, you never cease to amaze me. Where did you learn such terms?"

"In a book."

"What's a 'jib?'" Éponine interrupted.

Étienne pointed at the ship, directing Éponine's gaze towards the front of the ship where, sticking out from the foremost mast were two triangular sails.

"The shorter of the two is the jib. The jib helps catch more wind over the mainsail when heading windward."

Éponine blinked and nodded as if she understood completely and asked no more questions.

When they were finished admiring the ships Étienne took them to the picturesque breakers and walkways, some of which led to the lighthouse just outside the harbor.

Éponine now had a relatively unobstructed view of the sea. She breathed deeply the tingling salty air, which cleared her head, refreshing her. To see and hear the crash of the waves was invigorating. She giggled with delight as flecks of sea spray touched her face.

"Good afternoon, Uncle."

Éponine turned at the familiar voice and saw Enjolras approaching along the walkway.

"I assume you have shown off your handiwork to Madame Enjolras."

"Indeed. And she was impressed, weren't you?"

Éponine smiled at their playful banter, relieved to see Enjolras in an apparently good humor. Enjolras kissed Adrienne's hand when she approached to greet him. On Éponine he bestowed a nod. For once she was grateful for the distance.

"How did you ladies fare this morning in your errands?"

"I believe we were successful," Adrienne answered. Éponine turned her face back to the sea.

Adrienne continued. "I also took the liberty of ordering a new wardrobe for my new sister, as well."

"What?"

"It will be sent to Saint Prisca, don't you fret."

"I am not fretting. But, _where_ shall she wear all this finery? Saint Prisca is a small farming hamlet and _I_ am supposed to be a humble scholar; my wife wearing clothes more suited to the drawing rooms of high society will not do."

"You insult my intelligence! I thought of that, silly. I chose patterns that are of the latest mode, but devoid of all flamboyant embellishments. They are elegant and practical.

Enjolras gave a loud sigh, he clearly was not convinced, but he had no desire to argue, and he did wish for Éponine to have clothes made especially for her. His little sister had saved him from the discomfort of sitting in a dressmaker's parlor.

The little party continued their jaunt on the sea wall in comfortable silence (on the most part) until a strong gust of wind suddenly rose up and snatched the bonnet Éponine had neglected to tie, right off her head.

Enjolras immediately took off after it. It landed a few feet away but when Enjolras bent to retrieve it caught the breeze again, rolling down the walkway, and thus the chase continued for a good minute. Adrienne burst into giggles and soon her merriment encroached on Éponine's dampened mood and she began to laugh; deep, belly laughs, causing her to clutch her bodice and double over.

By the time Éponine straightened and wiped away the mirthful tears Enjolras had caught the rogue hat. He strode up to her, a merry smile brightening his eyes and flushing his cheeks.

"Your hat, _Madame_," he said, handing it to her. Éponine looked up into his beautiful face and her heart plummeted in despair.

Enjorlas' grin began to fade as he became disconcerted and puzzled by her odd, unreadable expression. When she did not immediately take the hat, he moved to put it on her himself. Éponine sprang to life and snatched the bonnet from his hands.

"I can do it! . . . Thank you so much."

Enjolras' smile was now completely gone and his customary frown had returned. Éponine did not look at him as she tied the ribbon under her chin, and so she missed the brief look of hurt pass over his face.

Étienne approached them with his pocket-watch open.

"I think we had best be returning now."

. . . . . .

Éponine spent the remainder of the afternoon out-of-doors with Adrienne. Her new little sister had proposed to sketch and paint in one of the walled _parterres_. Éponine had no objection to the pastime, she used to while-away slow days at the Sergeant of Waterloo with idle doodling. She may have even been pretty good at it—at least that was what the Lark had told her and in her spoiled ingratitude Éponine had scolded her, telling her to mind her chores. The present Éponine's gut wrenched with guilt at the memory. Cosette had always had a kind word for her, even back then, when she had been at her most undeserving.

_I wonder if she and Monsieur Marius are married now . . ._

"Oh!" Adrienne's exclamation, close to her ear, startled her out of her reverie. The younger girl was leaning over her shoulder, staring at her study of the _rose trémière_. "That is quite well done, Éponine!"

Éponine looked at her work. It was not bad at all. "_Merci_."

"Something that nice should have color!" Adrienne scampered to her spot where she had been sketching _œillet de poète_, grabbed her watercolor box and offered it to Éponine.

Éponine opened her mouth to admit that she had never painted with watercolors before—really never painted at all—but then she shut her mouth and thought to herself as she surveyed the box and the glass of water Adrienne had also set beside her: _I'm sure I could figure it out . . . how hard could it be?_

A half an hour later her paper was saturated with water; the color running down from its purposed places to pool at the bottom of the paper, which was curling with the moisture.

"Oh, dear . . ." Adrienne said, spying the disaster before Éponine had a chance to hide it. "What happened?"

"I . . ."

_I spilled the water . . . no, she won't buy that, the glass is still full, _

"I've . . . I've never painted . . . with watercolors before."

"Oh! Why did you not tell me?"

_Why _didn't _I? . . . Perhaps . . . because my pride has been so terribly bruised of late I wanted to shore it up any way I could . . .perhaps?_

Adrienne did not wait for her answer. "It's my fault for assuming things. Again. How stupid of me! Of course you wouldn't know how . . ."

Éponine did not bristle at her last careless sentence, because clearly Adrienne was upset with _herself_ and had not meant it as a deprecation, but a matter-of-fact.

"It's alright . . ." Éponine said lamely, not knowing what else to say.

"But, your lovely picture is ruined!" Adrienne wailed as if she had just witnessed the wanton destruction of a priceless work of art of which she had an unwitting hand in destroying.

"I can easily draw another one," Éponine said with a careless shrug in an attempt to soothe her sister-in-law's conscience. At the same time, she was amused and touched by Adrienne's overreaction.

Adrienne sat next to her with a graceful plop. "Do you mind if I draw the same subject, and when you are done, if you would like to paint it, I may show you?" She said shyly. Éponine smiled to herself, marveling fondly at the odd combination of outspokenness and timidity found in this young member of the Enjolras family; how familiar was her character! The image of a younger and happier Azelma flickered briefly across her mind's eye. She shook it away and attempted to apply herself again to the drawing of the _rose trémière_.

. . . . . .

Montparnasse had many hovels and hideaways he ducked into when things with the police grew hot and he needed to lay low. His personal favorite was the one on the Rue de la Gaîté because of its closeness to the Montparnasse Cemetery. As an infant, he had been found, abandoned, at its entrance by a passing priest and taken to _Hospice de la Vieillesse Hommes. _The wet-nurses, after hearing of the story of his discovery were the ones to dub him Montparnasse. As soon as he could walk he ran away from the orphanage and straight into the streets.

It was this ramshackle shelter that Azelma slipped into. Their last three burglary attempts had been bungled one way or another; this was the fourth. Somehow . . . someway, some_one_ was informing on them. That was Azelma's conclusion. And each time their escapes had become narrower. On this occasion Montparnasse suffered a glancing blow to the head from a nightstick.

"'Parnasse?" Azlema anxiously called out into the darkness of the hovel. "'Parnasse! Are you here?"

"'Zelma."

The relief she initially felt lasted only for a split second. The tone in his voice caused a ripple of foreboding to skitter up her spine and make the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Her eyes darted around fighting to make sense of the indistinct shapes in the inky blackness surrounding her.

"Are you hurt badly?" She ventured. Silence. Then suddenly her upper arms were being painfully gripped and she could dimly see the handsome face of Montparnasse, contorted with rage; blood was trickling down from a cut near his left temple.

"Your father said you were a poor look-out, but I gave you a chance and this is how you repay me, this is your devotion?"

"It's-it's not my fault! I don't know how—"

A stinging slap across the face chopped her sentence.

"What other explanation could there be but your complete ineptitude!?" A blow was struck against her other cheek. Azelma stumbled back against what felt like a table.

"If it's anyone's fault, it's yours!" She burst out. Montparnasse lunged for her but she just got out of the way, enough time to yell out her theory. "You thought you were so clever disguising yourself to set Gisquet on that man's trail, but you accomplished nothing except setting him on your own!"

It was the wrong thing to say.

The last thing Montparnasse wanted to hear was a list of his own failings. As far as he was concerned nothing was his fault; he was the genius surrounded by envious idiots.

The young man lunged at her again, this time catching her.

. . . . . .

_muguet_: Lily-of-the-Valley.

_le papillion_: The butterfly.

_parterre_: "A level space in a yard occupied by an ornamental arrangement of flower beds."

_rose trémière_: Hollyhock.

_œillet de poète_: Sweet William.


End file.
